Iterative Catwaxing

So I've been catwaxing on posting about catwaxing (to understand recursion, you must first understand recursion) and honestly, for the last week, I have been working too hard to claim catwaxing at all. Despite being a bit sidelined with an eye infection, I've managed to write over a thousand words on every day except one, and on two of those days I logged over 3,000 words.

This is something like my productivity of yore, before the Dark Days of 2008-2009, where pretty much my process fell into disarray and every word was a struggle. I'm really hoping this means I have my mojo back, because--my mojo, I need it.

However, having accomplished that, and also finished a draft of a novella, and done a whole bunch of other work, I'm rewarding myself with a weekend more or less off. (Even my days off always seem to involve some work, but that's the joy of being self-employed. The work is never actually Someone Else's Problem.)

So I'm going to curl up in my big papa chair and drink tea and watch a whole lot of television.

...which leads me to a catwaxing tool par excellence.

Netflix Watch Instantly.

The thing I love most about it is that there's no commitment. Halfway through a movie, disliking it? Quit! Delete! Move on! You don't even have to get up off the couch to eject it.

Now, that's satisfying.

Fun With Words

As is true of a lot of writers, I'm sure, my favourite catwaxing pastimes still include words, mostly in reading them or playing games with them. As I'd previously mentioned that there is a Facebook game that eats up copious amounts of my time, I thought now would be as good a time as any to share it with you.

It's called Wordy and it's a bit peculiar. There are multiple ways to play -- my favourite is Word Twist, where you are given a grid of letters and must move them around to form words. Calling it "Word Twist" is a bit of a misnomer, as you can exchange any two letters regardless of where they are, but that's not where the peculiarity comes in.

The peculiarity arises because, if I'm not mistaken, this game was originally written in Turkish. This leads to some translation errors between levels, and also some strange gaps in the game itself. For instance, I have played the game for months now, and not once has the letter "N" made its way onto the board. Likewise, while the game will accept the word "cwm", it will not accept the word "zoo." There are occasionally times when I just resort to shifting letters around hoping the AI will recognize words that I do not.

The most frustrating part of the game, though, is the fact that it will occasionally stop recognizing my mouse clicks, meaning that have to refresh the page and start over from scratch if I want to keep playing. And yet, despite all this, I do want to keep playing. It's addictive, and that's the way internet games are supposed to be.

"Can be," the tattoo artist said. "Can be a tribal thing, too."

That sounded better to Cait. "Yeah," she mumbled. "That's it." She didn't want to tell him about Madonna. It was still too fresh in her mind.

The artist got up, stretching his lean but muscular arms, which were showcased by the black sleeveless shirt he wore. They were bare of any ink, but he had a band around his throat, and it emphasized his haunted eyes and chiseled features.

"You're going to feel a little prick," he said behind her.

Wouldn't be the first time, Cait thought to herself, but chose to keep her thoughts private.

The pain was more than a prick. It penetrated her, the needle thrusting into her delicate skin to fill her with its ink, and for a moment she feared that he had hit a nerve and she was going to be paralyzed from the waist down. Just as she was about to start panicking, however, the pain was faded, to be replaced by a kind of delicious sense of completion, as though something she had been missing all her life had finally been found. She felt like she could feel some sort of connection with the artist. Some sort of shared intimacy.

....to be continued...

The ultimate cure for writing is... more writing.

TRAMP STAMP: A NOVEL

Chapter one.


Ever since Caitlin Ciccone was little, she's wanted a tattoo. Nothing elaborate, just a simple pawprint in the small of her back in memory of Madonna, her childhood cocker spaniel--who had unfortunately had to be put down because like so many blonde cockers, she suffered from Rage Syndrome.

Today was her eighteenth birthday (Caitlin's, not Madonna's), and by God, she was getting it done. Despite all her roommate's cracks about tramp stamps and California license plates. She'd had the appointment for two weeks, and her dad was going to kill her if he ever found out--no bikinis in the swimming pool back home!--but she was going ahead with it.

As she lay face down on the brown vinyl bench, the tattoo artist was making conversation as he arranged the transfer paper over her coccyx. "You a Huskies fan? Women's basketball? I loved that Rebecca Lobo back in the day."

The cradle kept Caitlin from shaking her head. "Pawprints are a basketball thing?"

...to be continued...