MMMMMPHHHHPHHHHHHMMMRRRRRGGGLLLL 

Peter said, I’m not dancing the hornpipe.  I’m not.  Besides, I don’t know any hornpipes.  However . . . .

            Do I need to suggest you stop right there? I said.

            No, no! said Peter.  This is a supportive, constructive remark!  I was just thinking you might want to learn some angry songs!  There’s a lot of good ranting in Handel, isn’t there?  Sorceresses and things.  Since you like Handel.*

            Something of the sort had already occurred to me.**  I have also told you that I was in psychotherapy/counselling for a number of years***.  One of the bottom lines with each of the various psycho-disciplines my various shrinks had trained in is that you can’t just stop something, to make a change stick, you have to replace the behaviour or the thought-pattern or the what-you-like with some other behaviour or thought-pattern or what-you-like.  So I warned Peter that if I am overcome with the need to shout at my computer I am going to start doing singing exercises. 

            So from this moment forward my day goes something like this:  clickclickclickclickclick.  Damn.  Click.  Clickclickclickclick.  Oh damn.  Click.  Click.  Click.  DAMN.

            Ee, ah eeee ah, eeee ahahahah, eeee, ah.  EE.  AH.  EEEE.  AH.  EEEE AHAHAHAH EEEE ARRRRRGAH.

            Good breath control.  Great projection.  This is so going to help my EXPRESSIVENESS.

 Blogmom 

Oh, this is too funny. Made my day. 

I CAN STILL SHOUT BY EMAIL, YOU KNOW.† 

* * *

* A partiality I do not share with my husband.  Back in the days when we still went to live operas in London, I did manage to take him to Semele.  Afterward he said no more Handel.  —Hmmph.  Philistine.

            The furious aria that is going to come first to the average opera-goer’s mind however, is the Queen of the Night’s second appearance in THE MAGIC FLUTE:  Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart.^  Excellent.

            I don’t think so.  I still have happy dreams of regaining my high C, although I haven’t decided yet if I mean a working C, which means I need a D to float down from, or a C to float down to the B from, but my high F days are past.^^  And, speaking of technique . . . yeep.^^^ 

^AKA Kill the beggar:   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_of_the_Night_Aria  

^^ I’ve told you I had a silly range when I was younger—I sang anything from high soprano to middling baritone.  I’m a little fascinated in hindsight what that upper register must have sounded like.  Like a needle through the ear, probably.  

^^^ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WNJyOKvKkM&feature=related 

** And about interpretation?  About COMMUNICATING with my audience the reality of the song?  I bet I could do anger.  I bet I could really do anger. 

*** And a good shrink is worth her or his weight in gold, jewels and obedient hellhounds^ several times over.  You think I’m overwrought and overreactive now. . . . My first shrink had a whip, chair and trank gun.   

^ Actually this wasn’t a set up, but since I’m here . . . we were out striding over hill and dale beyond Warm Upford today.+  We turned at the top of the hill++ and were now walking on the near side of a low, thorny hedge, with a field on the far side.  I could see a person ambling along near the hedge on the other side.  Oh gods, I thought, she will certainly have a dog.  She did.  My heart sank.  But then—joy—I noticed she had it on a lead.  Hurrah hurrah hurrah.  We were, of course, going faster than she was.  We usually are going faster than the other guy.  And we were no more than about eight feet behind her when—without looking around—she leaned down and let it off the lead.

            Crapalooza.

            Okay, I thought, the hedge is pretty frelling thorny, and we’re moving at a clip and can perhaps move a little clippier so by the time we get to the end of the hedge we’ll be well out in front and . . .

            Bitsyboo! said the woman, who had finally noticed our existence, as we pulled even with her.  Bitsyboo!  Come!  Sit!  Wait!  Stand!  Stop!  No!  Bitsyboo!

            Bitsyboo was galloping back and forth along the hedge, frantic for a way through.  With this kind of persistence, of course the bloody thing found a way through and was on us at once.  Great.  Splendid.  Gak.  Frell me. 

            Fortunately it was friendly, more or less.  It was completely manic, and it did an awful lot of dashing, pouncing and growling, but it was pretty clearly play growling, and while Darkness is not the most reliable coal-mine canary, if we agree about a dog’s intentions we’re probably right, and he wasn’t reacting to Bitsyboo—other than spare me which I powerfully agreed with.  We kept going.  We kept going at our best clippy clip because my experience is still that most pet dogs—I say nothing of working sheepdogs or hunting dogs or various other countryside menaces—are not particularly fit and if they aren’t actively trying to gnaw bits off you you have a pretty good chance of just outrunning the miscreant. 

            The cries of Sit!  Stay!  Bitsyboo!  Come! were growing fainter in the distance, till they morphed into Excuse me!  Excuse me!  —I know what this means.  It means, would you please stop, so I have some chance of catching my dog because I am an incompetent moron and it is an untrained disaster, and if you don’t stop I may never see it again. 

            No.  No, I won’t stop.  You are an incompetent moron and I’m not in a good mood and next time LOOK AROUND before you let your untrained disaster off its lead.  I’m also running [sic] about twenty minutes behind time because every road in Hampshire is being dug up, including the ones that footpaths cross, and we’ve had to take an unscheduled detour and I don’t feel like wasting another ten minutes while you (a) catch up and (b) play tag with your mutt.  And yes, if it were vicious we’d be standing in a tight little wodge while I tried to stay between it and my hellhounds and I am therefore being unfair to mere incompetent morons and I don’t care.

            And yes, Bitsyboo did get tired before we’d sprinted the two miles back to Wolfgang.  I admit I’d’ve stopped before we got to the main road:  I have a deep dislike of blood, even incompetent moron’s untrained disaster blood.

 + There’s a house that got put up a few years ago in the middle of that heavily pheasanted and gamekeepered cultivated wilderness and I keep wondering what they do during shooting season.  Lie flat on the floor for six months perhaps.  Anyway.  The house has a peculiar name.  Let’s call it . . . Botulism.  It’s in that category.  Why anyone would want to name their house after a disease is a little beyond me.  Even if it’s a private joke, still Botulism is what the world knows you as.  Fortunately I’m not likely ever to be invited to dinner there (even out of hunting season, when we get to sit in chairs).

            But it apparently exists in the Warm Upford Alternate Dimension.  It’s got to the point that if we’re walking along the little road at the bottom of the valley and have to press ourselves into the hedgerow to let a vehicle past, and the vehicle slows down to speak to us, I open my mouth to say, yes, it’s half/a quarter of a mile ahead/behind.  Today we had turned off the road and were toiling up the hill again when I heard a commotion behind me.  I turned around.  There was a delivery truck on the road, and the driver had got out of his cab and was starting to run up the hill after me.  Miss!  Miss! he said (he was a serious distance away, you understand).  I stopped.  Do you know where mumblemumblemumble is?

            Yep.  Half a mile that way, on your left.  —And am I sure he was asking about Botulism?  Yes.  I could hear the B, the t, the l, and the fact that it was three syllables.  But if I wasn’t used to people trying to find it, I might well have said, Bottlebrush?  Never heard of it. 

++ Yes, that hill 

† As I believe I proved just a few hours ago on the subject of frelling Facebook’s latest draddarkle fambanged remodel, which Blogmom is going to have to cope with.

Mismatched Socks

How do you convert ideas for stories you have into believable plots?
I start with about 4 cups of good flour, 5 cups of warm water, a tablespoonful of dry yeast and another tablespoonful of honey . . .

And then you stir it all together, cover, place in a warm, draft-free spot, and leave it alone for a while, right? 

That’s right.  But story-yeast can be rather slow.  Sometimes it’s years before the sponge has bulked up enough.  You just want to keep it warm and comfy and add a little more flour and honey from time to time.   It will of course suddenly start raging out of its bowl when you’re fully occupied whacking the gorblimey out of some other dough.* 

Also, this made me laugh. 

Oh good.  That was the plan.  Because this question also illustrates one of what are probably the two main reasons why I let Ask Robin slip.  Reason one:  Impossible questions.  What on earth was this person expecting?  The Chinese menu web site for writers?**  There isn’t an answer.  If there were there would be even more books out there . . . but they’d also be better books.

            I don’t object summarily or comprehensively to impossible questions per se—most of writing is about what might magnanimously be called guided floundering and it can be reassuring to compare scars with other people who have slammed into submerged objects in the murk—but I do rather object to the impossible question being plonked down in front of me like a dead fish on a slab.  The entirety of the email that bore this question was exactly . . . the twelve words of this question.  I grant that email is different from other written forms of communication, and I don’t usually bother with salutations either . . .  but to a stranger I’m asking the favour of free professional expertise/attention of?  Um, yes.   I’d stick a salutation in.  I think a ‘Dear Robin McKinley, Would you be willing to talk a little about . . . .’ would be nice.  Plus your name at the bottom.  This is big steaming pet peeve of mine.  Put YOUR NAME at the bottom of your email.  Cheez.  You don’t have to tell me I’m your favourite author, or even your favourite author this week and next week it’s going to be E. M. Hull***.  But a quick genuflection at the altar of old-fashioned politeness?

            Yes.  Damn it. 

Quats

THANK YOU for validating the way I write. I spent much of junior high and half of high school traumatized by English teachers who insisted that you absolutely could not write anything worth reading, much less grading, unless you wrote an outline first, and then plodded through sticking exactly to that outline stage by stage; and required that you turn in the outline to prove you’d done it, then a thesis and topic sentence for each paragraph, then…. 

And this illustrates the second reason† I have let Ask Robin lapse . . . and how I was wrong to do so.  I’ve answered the ‘how I write’ question before.  Many times.   It’s almost as common as the much-dreaded Where Do You Get Your Ideas? ††  It’s another one I have nothing against rambling on about but I’m a bit conscious that I’ve said it all before (many times).  So I’m relieved that it’s new and interesting to someone.

            I am not a consistent human being.  On the one hand I don’t expect anyone to read this blog every night or to have memorised my FAQ and Author as Bitch from Hell on the web site.  I’m also extremely conscious that certain, ahem, themes appear regularly in this blog.  On the other hand I’m reluctant to recycle too blatantly.  One of the reasons I decided to drag Ask Robin out from under the bed and dust her off however is the awareness that after four (?) years of blogging pretty much everything is recycled to a greater or lesser extent and it’s a bit daft that I’m a writer and never talk about writing. 

Blogmom

To submit a question for Ask Robin, email askrobin@robinmckinleysblog.com

Ask Robinses are archived in the Ask Robin Archives, a veritable treasure trove of… Ask Robinses!

You can also wander over to Robin’s Web site and peruse the most excellent FAQ

– Blogmom, who doesn’t do New Year’s Resolutions either (except for one-word themes for the year)††† but will try to keep Ask Robin Archives updated regularly 

Diane in MN

I saw a sign at a colleague’s work station years ago: If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is an empty desk the sign of? Hah! Guess what MY desk looks like. 

We be of one blood, thou and I.  So, is this a genuine quote by Albert Einstein?  Because if it is it so goes in the Quote Thingy.  But the last time I tried to add an excellent Einstein quote that someone had posted to the forum—“But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid”—it turned out to be an urban myth.  

             It’s still a good remark.  Maybe we should put it, or both of them, up as ‘anonymous.’

Horsehair Braider

You mentioned doodles and I got mine!  YES! It’s totally gorgeous and I love it. I’ll probably put it in my will.‡ . . . To any who are waiting, it is SO worth the wait. My book is a treasure, and if I ever have the opportunity to have one done again I will leap at the chance, even if I have to sell a goat to afford it. 

Oh good.  ::Relief.  Relief::   Hmm.  Maybe there’s a future bribery opportunity here:   any guest post used on Days in the Life eligible for free doodle.‡‡  But surely you’d only have to sell a few extra cheeses for the book??  I’d hate to be responsible for a goat being sold that didn’t want to be sold.

EMoon

Quats: I was taught that way too, but evaded it: wrote the paper, then the outline, then the first draft, etc. and handed them in at the right times–in reverse order. 

Emphasis mine.  You are so ooooooooorganised   Whimper.  I can’t even begin to imagine being—or ever having been—enough ahead of the game to do this.  AAAAUGH.  I will now carry this picture of Superemoon indelibly etched in my frazzled mind as I labour back and forth between doodle-desk and writing desk. . . .

            And speaking of the latter, I bet I could get at least another paragraph or two of SHADOWS down before I terminally fall out of my chair tonight. 

* * *

* Nooooooo!  Not the Seventeenth Third Damar Novel!  Nooooooo!  

**  Column A:  Heroine.  Column B:  Hero/2^nd Heroine/Other Romantic Interest Not Covered by the Foregoing.  Column C:  Heroine’s Best Friend.  Column C(a) If Column A is human, than Column C is Nonhuman.  These may be reversed if desired.  Column C(a)(1) animal (2) alien (3)  Supernatural/paranormal/fey (4) Other.^   Column D:  Villain.  Column E:  Secondary Characters Who Move the Plot Along.  Column F:  Secondary Characters Who Screw Things Up More. . . .

            This could be fun.  

^ Special considerations:  these categories may be suitably adjusted if either (A) or (B) is nonhuman.  It is however in the highest degree desirable that at least one of (A) (B) or (C) is not human.+ 

+ Oh, did I mention this is the Fantasy Writers’ Chinese Menu? 

*** In which case I will be compelled to hunt you down and force you to memorize The Complete Works of Shakespeare and of Edward George Bulwer-Lytton.  I discuss E M Hull and THE SHEIK with some emphasis on my web site. 

† All right, three main reasons.  Third reason:  indolence. 

†† It’s also another impossible question.  How I write also depends on the particular story.  But the beginning-to-end-three-times-in-succession is pretty much my basic bottom line.  With story-specific curlicues.  The minutiae of how and where I keep notes, when or if I ever pause or go back to edit or change something in the current draft . . . feh.  I have a strong, Don’t you have something better you could be doing than asking silly questions? reaction, but I tend to be all over the details of other people’s jobs because they’re not mine and I’m an inquisitive dork^.  So, okay, fine, but remember that if you’re another writer what I say about how I write has nothing to do with you. 

^ And also I may be able to put them in a story some day  

††† I like this idea a lot, except for the fact that the words that keep occurring to me are things like ‘multimillionaire’ and ‘thirtysixhourday’.  

‡ Snork. 

‡‡ All of you who liked Horsehair Braider’s first guest post and are waiting hopefully for the next one . . . she’s sent me one^ and I’m such a mess I keep failing to get back to her about it.  Given how I keep whining about guest blogs, this should give you some clue what a basketcase I am at the moment. 

^ And it’s funny

So I overslept*, our organic food delivery messed up our order and we’re going to run out of broccoli**, I’ve spent more time crashed off the internet today than on it, and I’m wearing out the carpet between the kitchen, where my laptop lives, and Peter’s office, which is where the Magic Wireless Internet Box lives***, I missed half of handbells due to circumstances beyond my control, and tonight at Muddlehampton practise my voice cut out.†  One bar I was singing, next bar I was making mouth movements like a fish.  What?  This is sooooooo booooooring.  The mutant virus is still with me, in its incredibly wearisome and unwelcome way, sticking up my sinuses, my throat, and a few alveoli, and punching my energy level around.  Also in the great scheme of my life I haven’t been singing all that long since I started up again.  Blondel got me to the starting line, so to speak††, and Nadia has been trying to get me over it.†††  These things take time, especially when I’m clinging to large boulders and heavy furniture and moaning no, no, no, no.‡  But I still haven’t got the stamina to spend two hours belting it flat out with Ravenel whipping us on, and I’m especially not ready for such immoderacy when I have a mutant virus getting in the way.  I was hoarse after the wedding and I had a few laryngitic moments last week and I didn’t even go to practise.  Lessons with Nadia are only forty-five minutes and there’s usually a fair amount of talk.  The Muddlehamptons are a whole different sport:  like running a marathon when your fitness level is derived from walking five miles a day with your hellhounds.

            This probably means I don’t dare sing for Oisin tomorrow either.

            Frell.  Frellfrellfrellfrellfrellfrellfrellfrell.

Catlady:  . . . and a wombat doing the polka . . .

Wombat. Doing the polka. Of course.

 This is so typical.  As I’m reading through the doodle orders Blogmom sends me I keep whinging, oh, I don’t know how to dooooooo that, why did they ask me to do thaaaaaaaaat?  But someone says something daft on the forum and I’m all over it.

And because you usually do the polka with a partner, here are two wombats doing the polka.

* Because I couldn’t sleep last night, of course.  

** This is serious.  I can only support this much tea and chocolate because of the amount of broccoli I eat.  Green beans are nice but broccoli rules.^ 

^ The cabbage family are all pretty domineering.    

*** I have emailed Archangel Rafael pleading for succour.  I have no idea if the email went out, of course.^  Nor how much faffing around it’s going to take to get this post hung.  I am of course assuming I will manage to hang it . . . whimper. 

^ I did finally get the rest of NUMBERLAND downloaded however, you will be delighted to hear.+  To whoever it was asked if I use the iPhone audible ap:  Yes.  I’m very simple-minded about technology.  I didn’t know there was any other way to get audible to run on Pooka.  And to the someone who recommended TEACHING PHYSICS TO YOUR DOG:  I’ll have to try it again.  The problem with popular science is the popular part.  I’m not bright enough to read the heavy-duty, can-I-see-your-PhD-from-MIT-please books, but the stuff written for people like me sometimes feels like it’s trying to be your grandmother or your best friend, the goofy one that your grandmother always liked.  I wasn’t entirely persuaded by the dog shtick. 

 + But I can’t imagine anyone but a maths whizz being able to listen to it without cracking some hard copy, on paper or your iPad screen—although that may just be my lack of excellence in maths.  But there are bits that make my brain hurt even when I can keep the page open as long as I want to and keep staring at it.  Any other weenies out there, consider yourselves warned. 

† It must have been frelling chatting with my frelling internet rangtangtangleflapping service provider. 

†† . . . or sing.  It still flashes before my eyes at undesirable moments, getting to that place in He Was Despised for the first time in a lesson with Blondel, where I had to come in without the piano and I couldn’t do it.  Speaking (or singing) of making fish mouths. 

††† Bulldozer . . . flamethrower . . . tank. 

 ‡ You would be forgiven for wondering why I decided to take voice lessons.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

PLEASE NOTE:  YAHOO IS BOUNCING ALL EMAILS FROM BLOGMOM AT THE MOMENT.  IF YOU BID OR BOUGHT AND USED A YAHOO ACCOUNT PLEASE CHECK THE APRES-AUCTION FAQ FOR INFORMATION.

So, you all think I’ve been bunking off Forzadeldestino, don’t you?  No.  Wrong.  They had a forty-seven bell practise one week and then a concert or some damn thing the other week.  That’s the worst of these ancient monument places:  they’re popular.  I feel that the sound of bells would enhance a concert . . . not with me ringing however.  Sigh.

Today I had no more plausible excuses* and I had furthermore talked Maribel from Stanhope into coming too, so there’d be at least one other middling ringer there if Gemma wasn’t.  So I really had to go.**

The climb up to the bell tower doesn’t get any shorter.  And you do feel like you’re trudging through forty-seven centuries of English history to match the forty-seven bells in the tower.  How many times have they had to replace the (crucial) ropes lining the twisty, claustrophobic little stairwells with the spiral, wedge-shaped treads the long ends of which are about big enough for Tinkerbell to get her feet on?  I don’t know how the blokes with their size-twelves get up and down at all.

And the ringing . . . um.  Well, I wasn’t quite as bad.  Quite.  But I also lowered my expectations and asked for a plain course of Grandsire Triples . . . which I still couldn’t get through without help.  SIIIIIIIIGH.  We also rang plain hunt on nine which is an improvement—from my perspective—on twenty-seven from three weeks ago.  SLOW DOWN! screamed tonight’s ringing master, whom we will call Og, from the treble, when I think I was trying to lead when I should have been in fourth place.  We stumbled through several courses of this and by the end I was actually ringing more or less in the right place.  It’s different on higher numbers.  It is.  My screwing up Grandsire Triples, however, is not being able to see what I’m doing when the other bells are in a line instead of a circle.***  AAAAAAAUGH.  However, they didn’t tell me not to come back this week either, so I have to go again.  There are two things about this:  in the first place, it’s too frelling humiliating that I simply can’t do it.  In the second place . . . I could learn triples here—if I could learn it, which is the big stumbling block—and major and caters and royal and a lot of that stuff I’ve been feeling hopeless and frustrated about for years now.  First I have to be able to cope with those bells in that ringing chamber.  And I have to do it before they tell me not to come back. . . .

But I did have an amazing treat tonight.  The tower captain, whom we will call Ulrich, took me up into the belfry to see the bells.†  Ooooooh.  Their belfry is, of course, mega whopping thumping ginormous colossal, to hold forty-seven bells.  The tenor is the size of a pod of whales.  A large pod of blue whales.   I always say ‘yes’ to invitations to visit belfries†† and they’re usually incredibly cramped and frequently involve contortionist crawling while clinging to solid frames—don’t grab that wheel, it swings†††—and they also tend to be badly lit and full of dead flies.  This one looked like they were going to have the duchess to tea there tomorrow.  And it was so huge you could set up a tea-table in a corner, no problem, with room for the bloke with the gloves, tailcoat, deferential smile and the trolley with the six kinds of cake, four kinds of sandwiches and two kinds of tea.  The staircase to the belfry, however, was even steeper and narrower than the final stair to the ringing chamber.  Before someone gets elected steeplekeeper‡ they must have to measure the freller and make sure they’ll fit.

Feye wrote

I managed to fulfill my previous prediction by blowing not one, but TWO paychecks on this auction.

I love stories like this.  Who needs to eat every day?  (Unless possibly you’re not menopausal.)

Sooooo worth it. 

::Beams::

Especially since I have a sneaking suspicion I not only got myself into the top bidders, but actually WON the item I was drooling over.

Oh good!  (And remember there’s a certain amount of laying-on of extras at top bid price for most items.)  But all of you should realise I am dying of curiosity to know when any of the orders attach to some forum member or other.  This doesn’t necessarily come through on the order forms Blogmom is sending me.  In fact, it usually doesn’t.

Have we successfully saved you from the horrors of selling raffle tickets, or do I need to start dreaming up doodles?

Dreaming up doodles is always good.  Well.  Sort of good.  You are somewhat constrained by the interesting intersection between my sense of humour and my drawing skills.  But I think I’m going to avoid the raffle tickets yes, and thanks.

HorsehairBraider

I am thrilled there are people out there with more money than I’ve got. . . . Good for you! I would have loved to get more stuff but that was not possible, so I am thrilled beyond measure that some of you were able to do these things.

The New Arcadia bells are also thrilled beyond measure.   I’m looking forward to a certain dumb-struckness among the human acolytes, however, when I hand the cheque over.  Vicky asked me a month or so ago for a rough guess about the proceeds from my auction, because she was due to go up against both the bell council and the parish council about how our fund-raising was going.‡‡  I said, cautiously, that I thought it should make £300.  I guess maybe.  Hee hee hee hee hee.

And I have to say, I am really thrilled that Robin is still alive

::falls down laughing::  I hear what you’re saying, but you might conceivably have thought of a more tactful way of putting it. . . .

(it seems a lot of the books I love to read were written long ago by people who have already died)

I do understand the problem.  But I imagine that tea with George Eliot or Rudyard Kipling would not have been a success.  Eliot would have found me bumptious and Kipling would have found me . . . female.  And taller than he was.‡‡‡

and that it is possible to interact with a living author and thank her for her wonderful body of work. Thank you! 

My pleasure.  Usually.§  Thank you.

I can’t wait to see what I get in the way of a doodle in my book!

Oh glory.  You mean you didn’t specify?  Do you realise how dangerous that is?  —And it’s getting dangerouser by the minute.  And by the every-completed-doodle.

And however long that takes, no problem.

Oh good.  I may need a few of you with that attitude by the end, when I’ve run through sixty-seven pens, four hundred and twelve A6 pads, and my eyeballs are frying.

I am thrilled with the prospect of anything at all.

Hey, whatever you’re on, can I have some too?  This thrilled thing looks like fun.

* * *

* And what’s worse, I had another last-minute invitation from Niall to ring handbells with one of his fancy ringers at Frellingham when both their usual third and fourth went down with the lurgy.  Waaaaah.  Although—get real, McKinley—I’m sufficiently super-extra crazed at the minute with cranking out doodles that it may be just as well I couldn’t go.  If I’m going to make an utter gibbering fool of myself, I’d rather do it at Forzadeldestino.^

^ . . . which is a good thing in the circumstances.

** This is all in my head.  Neither Maribel—who does go to Forza practise erratically—nor Gemma needs a security blanket.

*** I overheard one of Forza’s band talking about having gone to an eight-bell tower and how close together all the bell ropes seem, and in this weird little circle.

† No bats in evidence however.

†† Stop that giggling.

††† This is why people are not allowed in belfries when the bells are up, that is, mouth up, balanced precariously on their narrow ends, ready to be pulled off and rung.^  You grab the wheel of an ‘up’ bell injudiciously, and you are about to be a spot on the carpet, or rather the belfry floor.

^ There are exceptions.  But you have to know what you’re doing.

‡ Which is about the physical upkeep of the bells.  I think if there’s anything wrong with the steeple/tower you call in the parish council and say, yo, your problem.

‡‡ It’s the usual thing where nobody is going to give you any money till you prove you’re knocking yourself out to get it yourself.

‡‡‡ About once a year I dream of meeting Kipling.  Not Tolkien or E Nesbit or Edith Wharton or George Eliot or Anthony Trollope or William Morris or James Branch Cabell or Rebecca West.  Rudyard Kipling.

§ Except when Story in Progress is holding you down and stomping the sh*t out of you.  Sigh. . . .

To begin with, we have a winner in the random draw for a doodle-icious book.  This was open to anyone who advertised our auction/sale on their own blog, Twitter, Facebook, or megaphone from the top of their bell tower/castle/block of flats/apartment building/London Eye/Empire State Building/Seattle Space Needle/Machu Picchu*.  And our winner is:  danceswithpahis, from our very own forum.   Three cheers for danceswithpahis:  hip, hip, hooray!  Hip, hip, hooray!  THIGH, THIGH, GORBLIMEY!

Now then, speaking of doodles.  The three doodle-icious books in the auction went for rather higher than I was expecting, plus I’ve had another commission from a mad—I mean, a wonderful human being who really really really wants a doodled-up DEERSKIN and is willing to pay rather astonishingly for it.**   I originally said that you’d get another doodle beyond the three-doodle minimum for every $10 increment in the auction, which is still true.  But since I’ve got some slack to hang myself with, I’m going to conflate some of them so I can make a few larger, more interesting doodles as well as some standard, simple doodles.  Um.  Watch out.  I’m growing dangerous with a drawing pen in my hand.

Blogmom has also sent me the first wodge of doodle orders and . . . rrgllmmmph hee hee hee hee.  Some of you have a rather flattering if significantly untrue idea of my skills.  I’ll do my best.  And you’ll probably have some warning because the, ahem, new, original ones I’ll hang here (without attribution) before they’re put in the post.  But just to say . . . what you get may not be quite what you had in mind.  But the New Arcadia bells thank you.

Please remember that it’s only poor Blogmom doing all the admin—and only me doing all the doodling, and only Fiona doing the packing up and hauling off to the post office.   We’re doing the best we can***, but it’s going to take a little while.  Unless Fiona’s day job bites her and we have to reschedule, she’ll be taking what I hope will be the majority of the sale/auction results to the post office on the 25^th of this month.   I’ll tell you how I’m doing nearer time.

One last important thing:  orders that haven’t been paid for or have a PayPal payment pending by the 20^th of October† will be cancelled.  If we were a company with staff we could both let it run on longer and send you gentle reminders of the deadline.††  But we aren’t.  You’d be amazed at the amount of stuff there is to keep track of in just a little auction.  Okay, I hope you’d be amazed.†††  Having a prompt, no-bones deadline KA-CHUNK is merely a trying-to-keep-things-a-little-under-control‡ measure and you won’t be drummed out of the forum‡‡ or anything if you miss it.‡‡‡

Speaking of things that are taking longer than planned:  Blogmom has generously agreed to put off her Caribbean cruise till the auction/sale is rolled up and put away like Christmas decorations by the middle of January§, but she’s not going to put the new doodle window up till she’s had at least two good nights’ sleep in a row and can remember her own name.  She or I will let you know . . .

* * *

In one of those The Universe is Messing With Your Head conjunctions, today was the day Vicky had ordained that I would help with the teas-for-pensioners at the church hall.  Teas-for-pensioners has been going on off and on for years, mostly depending on there being someone who is willing to organise and run it.  At the moment, Tuesday afternoon tea and cake is being run by the bell ringers and for a ridiculous amount of volunteer effort, including making the cakes, we’re allowed to keep the proceeds.  With five of us slicing, pouring and washing-up . . . I guess we may have made £30.  Okay, £35.  Tops.  In two and a half hours I could have drawn how many doodles—?  Never mind.  It’s one of those community things, and it was pretty amusing, at least to a people-watcher.  The way the hall is set up, the kitchen runs along one side, and there’s a long open counter most of its length, like what you might see in a café, where the waiters hand over their orders and pick up the food.  So when you’re not pouring or washing-up you have a grand view of the proceedings.  Vicky and Roger and a non-ringer were on the wild side, while another non-ringer and I were in the kitchen.  I managed to overhear frustrating pieces of what sounded like several really good feuds, and one of pensioners has a crush on Roger.§§  And I swear Vicky could sell ice floes to a penguin, not that the home-made cakes needed much impetus to fly off the table onto individual plates.

It was still two and a half hours on my feet when I could have been at home at my desk.  So I’d better go draw something, and then sing something and then go to bed.

* * *

* Hey.  We got very good feedback on the Machu Picchu shout out.

** We are not making any more exceptions or taking any more commissions right now.  I’ve got too much to do—and thank you very much!!! for giving me so much to do!—but I need to get on with what there is.  If you find that you simply cannot live without a doodled-up something or other, there will be an opportunity later.  Have some chocolate and be cheerful.

*** And Blogmom deserves a medal.

† There are a few of you still waiting on final totals for postage and insurance.  Don’t worry:  Blogmom knows who you are, and if we need—which, please the gods, we will not—to extend the deadline for you, we will.

†† I would be out in the street if it weren’t for two things:  Direct Debit, which means you can tell your bank ‘pay these people’ and they’ll do it for you automatically, and the fact that things like the city council do send you (fairly) gentle reminders that your council tax is seriously due.

††† I think I hear some hollow laughter.  Clearly a few of you do have some idea.

‡ Cough cough cough cough cough

‡‡ Or blocked on Twitter.  Sigh.

‡‡‡ But you’ll be very very sorry not to have the doodle of Wolfgang repelling the taralian army or Darkness playing the piano while Chaos sings.  Joking!  Just joking!

§ An extremely ill-judged metaphor in this household.

§§ Roger is my age.  And took early retirement.  I can’t retire, but that’s another issue.

THIS IS YOUR LAST DAY.  THIS IS YOUR LAST OPPORTUNITY TO BUY A BOOK OR BID ON SOMETHING IN THE BELL-FUND AUCTION/SALE.*  The doodle option will stay up another week** but everything else shuts down tomorrow at 2 pm Chicago (Blogmom) time.  Step right up, folks, step right up.  The bearded lady and the sword-swallower right this way, just as soon as you give me all your money.   

             I’m uncommonly shattered for some reason.  Maybe it was that invasion of berserker cauliflower last night . . . no, wait, I do know what it was:  both hellhounds ate supper with almost no fuss whatsoever.  What?  Chaos has officially given up supper—he submitted the form a good fortnight ago but he’d filled it out wrong so I got to send it back—and Darkness only eats on the nights that having me pry his jaws open to get a remedy powder in is going to be just toooooo boring.  You can almost see him considering it when I put the bowl of food in front of him.   But I’d barely started my first game of Montezuma 2*** when . . . crunch crunch crunch.  Crunch crunch.  I had to put Pooka down in the middle of a game.†  But the entire experience was such a shock to the system I had to lie down and read for a while.††  And then repelling the attack cauliflower took a while.†††  And then there were the cats.  And then it was dawn.  And then the horrible man‡ across the road went to work.‡‡  The sound his frelling car makes on their gravel driveway is a lot like very large hellhounds eating supper. . . .  Sorry, I’m raving.

               So.  I’ve been doodling.  Some madwoman who wants to spread the joy‡‡‡ asked for a heap of sleeping puppies doodle for DEERSKIN.  Glarg.  I haven’t figured out how I’m going to simplify this into a standard doodle, but here’s a first trial run:

I was looking at Chaos and Darkness puppy photos and thinking Soooooo cute . . . . Soooooo glad it's over.

Someone else wants a spider in the corner of a window for SPINDLE’S END:

From a golden crown let your silk hang down. Er. Or a window frame.

I may have a go at the spider dangling from a sleeve—my doodle-orderer’s other suggestion—one of these days in my copious spare time, and find out if drawing Ikor’s shiny ribbony sleeve is rather satisfying in an OCD sort of way, as I suspect it may be.

              . . . And the medium-large friendly squid wants not to be forgotten.  

The 'Fido' is diamante, you understand. It's just a little small here.

Now go buy something.  Please. 

* * *

* And, guys . . . you’re seriously missing out not having a better run at TULKU, or CHUCK AND DANIELLE, or CLOCK MICE.  I know this is my blog—and my bells—but I’m recommending them.  Highly.  

** I don’t know exactly when this will happen, but when Blogmom has recovered from doing all the making-it-work about the bell fund^ I’ve asked her if she can figure out a way to hang a more-or-less permanent^^ doodle-order window down the side of the blog somewhere.  We’ll worry about what to do with the money if it turns out there is any.  

^ I believe I heard something about ‘Caribbean cruise’. 

^^ Or let’s call it indefinite, which is what my visa to stay in England says.  Very unsettling, ‘indefinite’ rather than ‘permanent’.  I’ll be good, officer!  Really I will!  —Er.  I do get to complain, don’t I? 

*** Sigh.  You were right.  Montezuma 2 is available for iPhone.  Why it didn’t appear instantly and say Buy me! when I asked iTunes for it is one of those little mysteries, like why my audible downloads are so easily led astray by bad companions and are found days later in the wrong part of town with nothing left but a headache and a vague memory of something about Long Island Iced Tea^ and spandex. 

^  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_Island_Iced_Tea 

† There doesn’t seem to be a ‘cancel this game, hellhounds are eating’ option.  Oh well, my player rating is always pathetic. 

†† I don’t suppose any of you out there want to recommend an origami book?  I dug out my ancient Dover reprint of beginner origami and ordered the FOR DUMMIES origami but neither of them is the least bit inspiring.  I want something that makes me go ‘ooh’.  I’m, you know, shallow.  

††† It was a vengeance raid.  I ate the emperor a few nights ago.  Very tasty he was too. 

‡ Actually he’s a very nice man.  Except at 7 o’clock in the morning. 

‡‡ Wait a minute.  It’s Saturday.  What was he doing going to work?^

^ Yes, I work seven days a week.  I’m free lance.  It’s the down side to being able to work in your dressing gown and not comb your hair.  And stay up till dawn.

 ‡‡‡ Too late.  I’ve been mad for years.

You’ve still got a fortnight left to buy or bid on something!   The New Arcadia Bell Restoration Fund auction/sale is live:  http://robinmckinleysblog.com/bells/ 

. . . . Bluuuuuuh, continued.  Service ring this morning was interesting.  I was clinging fuzzily to the treble and then Niall called for frelling Cloisters.  It’s not that it’s difficult—it isn’t—but it does require that the treble wake up and pay attention.  Then I came home and drank tea till I was in danger of rattling off my chair. . . . I am going to my voice lesson tomorrow.  I don’t know what I’ll do once I get there, but I am going.  And, gods save both of us, I have an old friend I haven’t seen in over a decade passing through Mauncester on Tuesday.  It would be nice to be speaking in complete sentences.  I suppose I could just shove doodles at her. . . .

            To all of those anxious people posting to the forum and writing me little apologetic emails:    I am not keeping track.  You won’t be drummed out of the forum if you don’t pony up for my bells.  Bidding in the auction and/or buying a doodle or a book is supposed to be fun.  It’s not required.  Sure, I want to raise funds for my bells, but trust me, I know about being short of money.  If your roof fell off last night, you can buy another shingle for the price of a doodle.  I totally understand.  Also, because I am me, I will probably totally screw something up during the auction/sale—there will be opportunity for any screw-ups or falling into technological chasms to be sorted out because there will be me to sort out.  This is the good side of not being amazon, okay?  Don’t worry. * 

And now . . . how about an opportunity to win a doodled up book?  All you have to do is spread the word.

Tweet it, Facebook it, blog it! Win a doodle-licious book!

Help us publicize Robin McKinley’s Sale and Auction in support of the New Arcadia Bell Restoration Fund!  Tweet it, Facebook it and blog it and you will be entered in a random drawing for a signed and dedicated doodle-licious Robin McKinley book of your choice with five** doodles to be scattered through the text at the author’s discretion. 

http://robinmckinleysblog.com/contest/

Handbell ringer having a Very Bad Day

Tower bell ringer having a Very Bad Day

Please note that this person, while unfortunate, will nonetheless be welcome back next week, because he*** is still following the Tower Bell Ringer’s First Rule which is never let go of the tail end.   

* * *

 * I love it.  Me saying ‘don’t worry.’  hahahahahahahahahahaha  

** Blogmom originally said ten doodles and I said GLEEEEEEP.  Even the auctioned books only start at three.  But you never know, I might be inspired.  

*** I think both these victims of circumstance look rather he-ish.  The main thing is that you can tell by the fact that their shoes have discernable heels on them and are therefore definitively not All Stars that neither of them is me.

Okay, here we go.  Knock yourselves out.  Please.

http://robinmckinleysblog.com/bells/

It runs from NOW till 2 pm Chicago USA time* Sunday, 9 October.**

* * *

* Because Blogmom is running the back end, and that’s her time zone

** Doodles may run longer.  We’ll see how it goes.

Today has been a ratbag ME day wherein not all my complete sentences are compl. . . .   And I find myself standing outside some door or other staring at my keys and wondering what the one thing has to do with the other thing.*  And Mondays are voice lesson and ringing at one of Colin’s towers in the evening.  Oh, and earning a living.

            Remember first and foremost that as ME goes I have a mild case.  But it is interesting the extent to which you can sometimes learn to manage your shortcomings.  I was talking to Niall about this coming home from bell practise tonight—that first time I began learning method ringing I had to give it up when the ME felled me.  I did have to give it up—I spent about eighteen months not able to do anything but lie on the sofa and watch BUFFY—but I remember the six months or so leading to that culminating takedown.  There were a lot of days like today, where everything is foggy and slippery . . . but I had no idea how to cope.  The only thing I knew how to do was fight back—which is the wrong answer.  You have to learn to . . . slip and fog yourself.  You don’t confront ME as an enemy—or as an equal;  you’re not equals—it’s stronger than you are, which is your First Lesson.  And I don’t, after all, find the enemy model all that useful;  I know some people do.  But the ME is part of me.  As someone with a chronic, lifelong case of Low Self Esteem, self-hatred is a real and constant danger as well as an incredible waste of time and energy.  Let’s not go there.  So I don’t (mostly).  I’m a 59-year-old female Caucasian mezzo-soprano bell-ringing rose-gardening storyteller with bad teeth, hellhounds and ME.  Nu.  Deal.**

            In my experience you have to learn to slip and fog individually for each activity—and I’ve been ringing bells longer than I’ve been taking voice lessons, for all that bell ringing is a deeply alien activity for someone with my shape of brain*** and singing is pretty normal for almost everybody—and I’m on the right side of the line in that I can carry a tune.†  Which is another way of saying that today’s voice lesson was not the most superb I’ve ever had, although some of that is the frelling Italian.  Today was not a good day to be trying to sing in a foreign frelling language for the first time for Nadia.††  But I did come away with some new stuff written down in my notebook and a wary sense that it might some day be possible to remember that I’m only allowed five vowel sounds.†††

            I came home and found an email from Niall wanting to know which house to pick me up from.  Of course I went bell ringing.  I clawed what neurons I could find out of the shadows, dusted them off, tied them up with twine, and went.  And while I was about as reliable as a plastic tin-opener, we did ring Stedman and I did successfully ring several evil coathanger singles, and they’re becoming positively familiar, which means I’ve learnt how to slip and fog my way through Stedman (doubles), which is good.  The shocker of the evening was the Cambridge—having been dragged by the hair through a plain course and preparing drearily to stand my bell, Colin kept us going through a second course which, after I had totally frelled the beginning because I was expecting to stop . . . was about as good as I’ve ever rung Cambridge at all.  Which isn’t very good, but it’s nonetheless a testament to my increasing slip-and-fog skills.

            I then came home again to a lot of questions about the auction from poor Blogmom, who is trying to make the practical end work . . . and the last neuron I had I blew on Cambridge.  But I thought I could at least answer a few of your questions.

Maren wrote 

Don’t worry! It’s not up yet, but Blogmom is feverishly working to get it ready.

She would be less feverish if I had given her everything she needed.  But we are getting there.  Truly.

I don’t think you’ll be able to miss it when it does go up, as I expect there will be a blog post or several with big pink text.

I think that’s a fair prognostication. . . .

Julia

. . . Robin has nearly 3,000 people who “like” her Facebook page, and more than 3,000 followers on Twitter. Even if there is a certain amount of overlap, that’s a great many people. Imagine if we all gave $5 to help save the bells. That’s a lot of money! Granted, it isn’t terribly likely that EVERYONE from FB/Twitter would give. But if even half that number did- 3,000 people times $5 each is 15,000! I know that I could manage $5 for sure!

Remember the doodles.  There will be $5 and $10 doodles.  You aren’t expected to throw money at me!  I will throw doodles back!  And, since you mention it . . . $15,000 would do nicely, thank you. . . .

rhymeswithcarrot

. . . I will bid as much as my graduate student budget allows! . . . I’m also eyeing a copy of Knot in the Grain (if Knot in the Grain is on the list…I can’t remember) and a foogit doodle. Yay, foogits! 

KNOT wasn’t in the original list because I . . . forgot.  But it was in the list by the time (blushing slightly) I read this comment.   And a foogit doodle is entirely possible.

glanalaw

. . . I’d pay at least $10 extra for an autograph . . . And I would go for a doodle as well. I’m on one of those exceedingly strict student budgets but I’d be willing to go without a lot to support you and the bells. (Heck, I’d go without tea for a while if necessary. And tea is one of the essentials of life.)

No, no!  You mustn’t try to go without tea!  That would be dangerous! [says the tea addict, trembling at the thought].  Present plan is that all McKinley hardbacks in print will be available, although that rhythmic thumping noise you hear is Blogmom and I beating our respective heads against our respective walls as I change my mind again.

Rain.drop 7

I would ABSOLUTELY pay a premium for a signed copy of Sunshine! . . . I was worried all I would be able to afford was a doodle (Not that there is ANYTHING wrong with your doodles, I will still be buying one either way I am quite sure). This is a great idea, especially for those of us across oceans who can’t attend book signings. PLEASE do this! Think of the bells.

I am thinking of the bells.  No, don’t worry, the signed-with-doodle books are now firmly on the list.  Details to come.  As soon as I figure out what they are and Blogmom has patiently explained to me (again) that they’re hopelessly unwieldy and I have to think of something else (again).    

danceswithpahis

So are the doodles going to be auctioned, or will they have set prices? 

Set prices.  Doodles ($5 and $10) and signed-with-doodle hardbacks (probably $35 for any/all) are for those of you who don’t want to get into the auction thing. 

boddhi_d

You could do the doodle on bookplates (or bookplate-sized paper); Jan Brett does this to good effect, autographing bookplates.

Jan Mark is a proper artist.  I’m a writer who doodles.  My doodles are just a value-added joke to give this charity gig some . . . er . . . fizz.

amyrose 

Thank you for considering autographed books with a doodle! I would definitely like one, and would have a hard time not being greedy and going for two. And a separate bat doodle, of course.

Excellent.  Very excellent.  I like greed in a contributor.  Have several doodles while you’re at it. 

Susan in Melbourne

In the Project Management world that I inhabit we refer to the concept of ‘scope creep’ when people have lots of good new ideas, usually long after the budget has been established. 

This made me laugh and laugh.  Scope creep indeed.  That’s exactly what’s been going on, and why it’s taking Blogmom so long to get the back end built . . . and why we are not taking any more ideas, new or creepy . . . I’m creepy enough without help.  But it’s also why you’re going to have autographed and doodled flat-rate books as an option, so what a good thing someone spoke up before the portcullis crashed down.

And . . . thanks.  Thanks very much.  I’ll thank you even more when it’s all over . . .  

* * *

 * Or just now, when I filled the electric kettle with water and turned it on.  I then went into one of my little dazes and came out the other side staring intently at the right rear burner on the cooker, listening to the water coming to a boil and wondering what the significance^ of boiling water plus back burner might be.  Unh.  Well, on the days I have a brain, I put my teapot on that burner, fill it up with peppermint leaves and hot water, and put a tea cozy over it.  On days I don’t have a brain, I stand there staring.

            Days like this I’m afraid I’ll forget to feed the hellhounds.  They’d probably be delighted.

^  ‘Significance’ is a very good word to remember on a day like today.  It could easily have been the whatsit of boiling whatsit plus back whatsit. 

** Sure.  Puns intended.

*** Lots of fantasy.  No maths.

† Mostly. 

†† Che Faro—that hoary aria from Gluck’s Orfeo—doesn’t count.  My Italian is no better in it, but all those funny syllables are familiar in this particular context and order. 

††† And furthermore I have to choose the right one every time.  Cheeeez.  But I want to be able to sing in Italian.  If I don’t get any farther into foreign repertoire I can live with that.  But I want Italian.

Frell and damnation, it’s already the middle of the night and I still have a blog post to yank out of aetherwhere.   I’ve shipped off a lot of photos to Blogmom so that she can start creating the masterwork that will be this auction.  I was just saying to her that I take some comfort in the thought that my bells will not need serious restoration work again for another century or two.

            Meanwhile I’m very pleased that people on the forum are expressing interest and enthusiasm.  I feel my neck is sticking out pretty far.  I will be glad if this auction is a relative success not only for my bells’ sake but for mine, so I don’t look like an utter drooling prat.   So thank you all once already, and please keep those bid-button-pressing fingers limber.

Gonetotervs:  Another suggestion to raise money — if you still own the e-rights to any of your earliest short stories, put them individually on Amazon for $2.99 and see how many of us will buy them…..

Merrilee and I have a Cunning Plan—although probably not in time for the auction.  Watch this space.

Texturedknitter:  Lots of attractive things in your auction list. I’ve never cared about collecting autographs, but regret now that I didn’t get one at Balticon, lo those many *mumble* years ago.

Nothing to regret!  I’m still writing my name on things!  (I’ve still got the Balticon 1898 mug somewhere, holding pencils or paperclips or dragon baby teeth or rose petals or something.  The date on it is a little startling, I agree.) 

Also, maybe offer a little bat doodle thank you, alternate to the bells doodle thank you? I’m kind of unreasonably fond of the bats (distance helps with this, I expect).

I’m fond of the little frellers myself.  I like hearing them enjoying themselves in the accommodations provided . . . just not so much at 5 a.m.  I’m not quite sure how we’re going to arrange this, but doodle-buyers will be allowed some say in what the doodle will be.  Certainly anything that appeared in last night’s extravaganza is fair game.  Although doodles evolve, as anyone who doodles knows.  Last night’s Hermione or spider or running hellhound may not be next week’s Hermione or spider or running hellhound.  The map of Damar will probably stay fairly constant however.  

librarykat:  once things get going, I’ll see what I can bid on, or simply donate (depends on how crazy bidding gets)

Donations are good*—but you can at least buy a doodle!  (Or three!)  I’m hoping to offer both $5 and $10 doodles (there is also going to have to be some add-on for postage, but I haven’t faced this yet), but I’m dependent on what Blogmom tells me about the tactical technology of all this.  I’m also hoping that there is some clever way I can say/offer that if any biddable item is particularly hot, if it’s something I’ve still got spare copies of, I’ll make available extra copies at top bid price. 

Diane in MN:  Which we are going to be expected to sell tickets to. We’ve already had one pep talk, not to say exhortation, from Vicky about this.
Oh gods. I spent four years in high school having to sell things as part of fund drives, and made a solemn vow that I would NEVER SELL ANYTHING AGAIN. Which has meant, on more than one occasion, buying a lot of raffle tickets that I wasn’t about to try to unload on my friends and acquaintances. You have my very sincere sympathy for this. Do you suppose Vicky would let you off if your auction brings in a pile of cash?

THIS IS EXACTLY THE PLAN.  THIS.  IS.  THE.  PLAN.   I am totally hoping to lay a startling cheque in Vicky’s lap and add ‘and I’m not selling any frelling tickets.’  So, listen, everyone, not only are you contributing to the bell fund, you’re contributing to GETTING ME A REPRIEVE FROM TICKET SELLING.   Going around confronting people with stuff you want them to buy is the worst.  You know all those studies that say that public speaking is the majority number one fear?  I can do public speaking.  But selling things?  The mere idea makes me feel slightly ill.   Brrrrrrr.  So, bid in the auction.  Buy doodles.  Please.  I’ll stay up late drawing portraits of your Aunt Fanny and setting Chesterton’s Lepanto to music.   Anything.  Just don’t make me sell tickets.    

CathyR:  Can’t wait for the auction! *so excited* !!

This is the right attitude.  We support and encourage this attitude. 

AJLR:    *sits poised on edge of computer chair, with finger flexed over the PayPal button*

Yes!  Yes! 

B_twin:  I’m eyeing off that copy of ROWAN and SUNSHINE…

AJLR:  OK, BIDDING WAR in prospect!  And if R and I have to live on bread and dripping for a week in aid of Robin’s bells, well, I’m sure he won’t mind…

Someone married to a bellringer has to understand.  (Please quote me.)

Glinda:  I’d go for a bell doodle. Or a bat doodle. Or how about both together, for a bit more money?

This is the idea behind the $5 and $10 options.  Or two doodles. 

Black Bear:  Hey all, eyes off that copy of Rowan!!!

AJLR:  Gonna make me, huh, huh?
*squares up to Black Bear* 

Umm . . . ROWAN is one of the ones I have extra copies of . . . ::whistles nonchalantly:: 

Amyrose:  What about just selling autographed copies of various books? I would gladly pay $10-$20 in addition to the price of the book, especially since it’s for such a good cause.

 I’d consider this.  Anyone else out there interested? 

Of course, then who would ship them out? And who would order the necessary books? I suppose that would be a logistics nightmare.

Well, me.  That’s who’s doing all the grunt work anyway.**  But I wouldn’t expect the demand to be all that overwhelming.  Famous last words, I suppose.

But – *wistfully* – it would be nice to get a copy of Spindle’s End with a signature. And maybe a doodle of a spider… or a fox..

I could do that.  Oh, fox!  I could do a fox.

PamAdams:  I would certainly buy a doodle or maybe two. (Plus I’m hoping for some Peter books–any chance for King and Joker or Skeleton-in-Waiting?)

Another thing about an auction list is you probably can’t let it get too long and overwhelming or people will take one look and go back to reruns of THE WEST WING.  Unless you’re Sotheby’s, which I am not.  And I think KING and SKELETON don’t appear because we haven’t got spare copies.  Peter had this appalling habit of giving ALL his copies away and neglecting to order more.  And then the book goes OP and that’s that.  

AnguaLupin:  …Now I really have to find money in the budget to bid on the Serious Doodle. 

Oh good.  Yes please. 

Mrs Redboots:  Is there anything the Hellgoddess can’t do????

Write books that sell millions of copies.  Knit like you can.  Ring a touch of Stedman Triples.  Ring even a plain frelling course of Cambridge minor in hand.  Stop my roses from getting blackspot.  Convince my hellhounds to eat every day.  Sing like Beverly Sills/Marilyn Horne/Janet Baker/Joyce DiDonato/Bryn Terfel.  Fly like a pegasus.  End world hunger. . . .

I love the doodles!

Oh good.  Thank you!  Thank all of you! 

Meanwhile . . . you won’t remember this, but a couple of months ago I made reference to a Secret Gardening Project.  Look. 

First fruits. Er, vegetables.

My very first edible crop . . . of anything but apples off my predecessor’s tree, and my little patio peach and nectarine trees (this year’s harvest are ripening nicely, thank you).   Peter used to grow our vegetables but his back has not been cooperating this year with the basic gardening concept of lots of bending over.  I saw a tray of six-inch broad-bean seedlings out in front of the florist’s and thought oh . . .  feh . . . nothing ventured.  And they take up a huge amount of room, demand to be watered all the time, and totally refuse to be staked in any way I understand staking*** . . . and then you get this weeny handful of pods after all that, which are mostly pod.† 

Mostly pod. Sigh.

            But then you bite into a broad bean that was still on the plant an hour ago and you say ‘oh.  Wow.  Yes.  This is why.’  So I probably will do it again next year.    Maybe I’ll try a few more plants.   Maybe . . . 

* * *

* I’m also thinking that after all of this I will have to figure out how to get a recording of us ringing our newly cleaned, pressed and mended bells.  I’m the one going CLANK. 

** And Fiona, of course. 

*** Note to self:  broad beans are not dahlias. 

† I should get about this much again, I think, unless the next lot of pods decide they’re not having a good time and decamp to the Bahamas.