author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

The 17th Street Canal levee is gone. Lake Pontchartrain is swallowing the city.

Residents are warned not to return until at least Monday, and that just to retrieve possessions. New Orleans is uninhabitable, will be for at least six weeks. Or months. I forget which Mom said.

Goddess, haven't we all suffered enough? Haven't they?

Dad's still stranded at Touro Hospital, able to do nothing but watch the water rise. I can only pray he'll be all right. Him and all the many other New Orleanians still in the city for whatever reason.

(Writing-blogging will resume this evening, if I can get my mind off the impending apocalypse long enough to return to plot my main characters' personal armageddon.)

I'm breaking my promise. I wasn't going to do any blogging that didn't have something to do with actual progress on an actual manuscript. But life throws us for unexpected loops, and this makes no sense in the context of writing, not really.

The image featured here, courtesy of Google Maps, shows my home. My parents' home, actually, but I grew up there. Eighteen years I lived there. Every time I visit, I stay there; I sleep in the bed that I probably wet as a very young child, stare at the ceiling that sheltered me, listen to the same annual peeping of nesting purple martins in the eaves, start at the same creaks that once I believed were made by "baby bugs in the walls, calling to their mothers for dinner." That's it, right under the pink arrow with the dot. Home.

The bit in the white circle is the Bonnabel Canal Pumping Station. The Bonnabel Canal runs off into Lake Pontchartrain, a bit of whose south shore you can see here.

You've already heard about Katrina, right?

The good news: My Dad's OK. Mom, who evacuated to Hot Springs, has heard from him. He's been working hard all night at Touro Hospital, so he's tired, frustrated, and unhappy, but he's alive. And WDSU video shows UNO pretty dry, even if Robert E. Lee Blvd. and Paris Ave. is flooded up to the eaves. Dad's office, near Robert E. Lee and Franklin, is closer to the one than the other.

The unknown news: We're unsure about the status of family members last heard from at St. Tammany Hospital. We think they're OK.

The bad news: The pumping station circled here no longer has a top. I wasn't clear on whether it was the storm surge from the lake or the winds in excess of 150mph that blew its top off, but according to Dad, it's gone.

I imagine that if the pumping station succumbed, my childhood home fell like a house of cards. Either the wind took the gabled roof, or the water leaping the banks of the canal rushed into the back yard. In any case, the message I left on my parents' answering machine last night when I was still panicked with casuality predictions and cell phone silence, the one that just says, "Dad, I love you," I don't think anyone will ever listen to it. Thankfully, it's because the answering machine is gone, not because the people who own it are.

But still. Home. Is probably. Gone.

Somewhere in Metairie or maybe out in the middle of Lake Pontchartrain, a big Rubbermaid bin full of Dr. Seuss books and other childhood favorites is floating away. If anyone finds it, give it a good home.

The crayon scribbles in One White Crocodile Smile? I did those.

At Conor's again. The Indulgers are playing tonight. John just arrived. Wednesday I had a date with my writing; tonight I have a date with my husband. Woot! More later...

OK, it's later. The band have finally started. We probably won't stay for the full set, having been here for at least an hour already, but it's been fun thus far. They're sounding good, but unfortunately the balance isn't quite surviving the transition to the back room. We're mostly getting the bass and the fiddle.

Not much to say about the novel today, beyond that the current scene advanced some 400 words, technically, and by leaps and bounds, conceptually. Sometimes you just need to spend a few minutes with the cats, a lint brush, and an itty bitty spindle to spin the cats' nondescript tabby fur on, to make the next few pages of dialogue come clear in your mind.

Hey look! They just dimmed the lights. I'm bliiiiiind!

(Half the drunken forum posting on the Internet, I'm convinced, comes of installing wiFi in Irish pubs. I mean, what were they thinking? Oh, don't look at me--I've barely half-drunk my own pint. I'm just doing my best impression of drunken posting. I live to amuse.)

I am not entirely sure that I believe in omens, good or otherwise, although I do tend to think that the coincidences and absurdities around us are susceptible to the same sort of interpretation as dreams. But I do think--believe--know this for sure: That we want very much to do a thing indicates that the universe wants very much for us to do that thing. A writer's ache to write is evidence of the Universe's need for the stories that only that writer can tell.

(Talk to Barbara Hubbard about it. I happend to use an interview with her from Magical Blend Magazine to fill up my half-hour of volunteer reading this week, and I was all like, "Yeah, yeah, self-rewarding work, the need to create, all that, totally, yeah!" only I was also like "OK, you and Mr. Langevin get to sit in the time-out box for insane overuse of the word 'co-create.'")

So while I make no claims about portents and signs in the sky, I do feel justified in taking that triple rainbow Boulder was treated to today as a sign of encouragement. (Triple? Yes! If you look closely, you can see green through purple repeated at the bottom, one rainbow on top of another, both of 'em below a faintly hovering third.) Kind of like the elements sort of conspired to give me a gentle nudge in the direction I was already going.

(Did I ever tell you about "Putting Down Roots," the 2002 World Horror Convention, and fried perch at the Greek restaurant across the street from the airport Radisson? ...Right. About that, more some other time.)

Of course, my camera decided to kaput at me. The collage you see here is entirely thanks to a super-sweet neighbor of mine who did not turn and run the other way when I asked him if I could have copies of his pics. (It was totally the batteries. Put new batteries in, and the camera worked fine. There's enough juice left in the batteries to power the TV remote, maybe even a stereo walkman, but not the camera.) To him, many thanks, and the hope that he's OK with me posting these beauties.

And the novel? A good 800 more words. Not the same as a pathetic 800 more words. These were good. This was a good blend of the dominant "Oh, whatever will we do?" theme plus a leavening of humor to keep us from tumbling too far, too irrevocably into the self-pitying abyss. There were tears, there was laughter, there were hugs, there was snot on Todd's sleeve. It's all good. Tomorrow, Brian'll show up and the angstometer will rise a whole bunch.

Chapter 7 is long. I'm not sure if its huge length relative to the first six chapters is OK, or if it's a hint that I need to pack more Stuff into 'em all. I reread Chapters 1-3 and realized that there's a lot of cool foreshadowing of lovely subplottiness that, sadly, totally fails to show up in Chapters 4-7. For now, I'm ignoring it. But just wait until the next pass-through, the one after this rewrite is complete. Those seeds will sprout if I have to yank them out of their fartin' seed-cases myself.

I know where to get Yule logs now. I mean, on years where I'm not lucky enough to happen to be traipsing down the railroad corridor after tree trimming day. You do this. You talk to these guys, you drive down and wander about their yard, you show 'em which piece of tree you're interested in, and they charge you a couple bucks. Or not. If you're not too keen on getting a perfectly round and smooth birch log, if you pick an interestingly gnarled piece of "junk wood," maybe they'll tell you to just take it away and Happy Yuletide to you.

My piece of junkwood is burning very nicely. I wish I'd taken a picture of the whole ensemble before we torched it. It was a feat of architecture. Two layers of grocery store firewood interlaced with newspaper with the Log on top and then a bunch of holly and cedar draped over it and the last charcoal scrap of last year's log at the bottom, then one little splash of brandy and one little match. Phoom! Fire.

And the fruitcake is pretty darn yummy too, I gotta say. We took it out of its cognac cocoon and began devouring it. Oh boy. You people who don't like fruitcake, I don't get you.

Round about five-thirty we're going to get in the car - those of us who are here and awake at five-thirty - and head out to Red Rocks for the annual "Drumming Up The Sun" event. This is where a whole bunch of area Pagans stand around in the amphitheater making noise until the sun rises, at which point everyone makes a lot more noise. Then they head off somewhere and have breakfast. This year, I plan to actually get to Red Rocks before everyone else leaves. I have much better directions this time around.

Not a lot of writing (or editing) getting done tonight, though. I like to spend Solstice night on those activities with which I want to fill the coming year, but right now my brain is mush. And there are guests over. Mostly we're sitting around watching my husband, John, play "Rogue Ops" on his new X-Box (early Yuletide gift to himself). Sedentary stuff like that. If I make it to five-thirty without dozing off (again), I'll be doing pretty dang good.

I mean, productivity? You've got to be kidding...

Wow.

OK. I've just written the penultimate scene in the book. I've decided at last exactly what leads up to the shooting scene, and how that comes about; and I've fleshed out a bit of what happens just after. (Best line of dialogue so far: One police officer says to another, "You asshole, put that away. You wanna tell your kids you shot a unicorn?") And I've finally figured out how to resolve Diane's relationship with the one-horned critter such that she loses the ability to change shape in a way actually required by the story.

Hint: no, she doesn't just lose the magic item. It's something better.

I'm not sure whether what I just wrote was awful purple yuck or transcendent glorious poetry. But I'm feeling like I just read something transcendent and glorious, anyway, so I'm just going to ride that wave for now and congratulate myself.

Now I really ought to pull out my short-short story draft and start revising it into something submittable. Except I'm kinda scattered at the moment...

Maybe it's the coffee. Many cups of coffee, on top of a glass of tea from Penny Lane, on top of a pot of tea from the Tea Spot. My brain went and drowned in caffeine. So... I guess I'll hit the keyboard again when I've managed to resuscitate it and dry it off.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's time for my thousand word blogging break. Readers - all two of you - rejoice!

So I have this fruitcake recipe. Someone sweet sent it to me a few years back on the condition that after I followed it I send her a slice. Which I did. And then I never did it again. Make the fruitcake, I mean.

But now the Tea Spot (I never get tired of linking them!) is selling little slices of the stuff, heavy in cherries and walnut, and you know what? I gotta do it again.

So yesterday when I went to Whole Foods to pick up the ingredients for cat food (about this, more later) I also started in on fruitcake preparations. This is both the fun and the obnoxious part: bopping up and down the bulk goods aisle, deciding which dried and/or candied fruits to include, scooping them into little baggies with PLU numbered twist-ties, and weighing them to see if I'm adding up to 3.75 lbs yet. I got...

• pecans
• walnuts
• almonds
• currants
• bing cherries
• sour cherries
• black mission figs
• dates
• cranberries
• candied ginger
• and sweetened papaya spears.

Now. About chopping up dried fruits. Dried fruits are sticky. I don't care how much your friendly Pampered Chef Dealer hyped the Food Chopper, it is useless for chopping dried fruit. Dried fruit sticks to the blades at the very first slice and then rides them clear of ever getting sliced again. Besides, you don't want randomly minced fruit; you want cubed cherries and quartered dates. So stick with the knife. It's old fashioned but it works.

By the way - here's a little bit of trivia for you. True or false: "It is safe to leave bags of dried fruit out on the kitchen counter in a cat-infested household." False! I came back from retrieving the second load of groceries to find Uno and Null regarding a scattering of black mission figs, occasionally batting them to watch how they rolled. Bad kitty-owner!

So now I have a bowl of chopped-up dried fruit sitting in a covered bowl and happily getting drunk on half a cup of cognac. Tomorrow there will be the mixing of the batter, the baking of the cake, and the beginning of the process of curing the cake in more cognac in my big round Tupperware™. I plan to let that sucker pickle right up until Solstice. Yes, yes, I know. "Waste of good cognac." Well, you know what? It's just as much a waste to leave the stuff sitting on the kitchen counter until it spontaneously quadruple-distills itself. Which is what would happen. Believe me, the last third of a cup of brandy from the bottle I used on my last fruitcake was still hanging around as of yesterday. So, deal.

Next entry: A musical interlude, with homemade cat food. You (all two of you) may want to skip it, as it involves baked chicken liver.

I'm still at the Saturn dealership now. There's no signal here, so I will have to post this later. (As you're reading it now, it must be later.)

I've written some really self-indulgent scenes of Diane's childhood friend reading her unicorn stories just like in the old days, and of Diane having some really disturbing dreams about him, and my word count is now a not entirely unacceptable number at which to stop for the day. I like the results of dividing the remainder by 2,000. They indicate I'll get a day off.

And I had this thought: It's totally unfair for me to complain about that unsympathetic couple at the bus stop, and not give well deserved kudos to another pair of people who, in a similarly needy circumstance, exhibited exactly the opposite sort of behavior. There actually are people in this world who give a damn about strangers in distress. More of them, I think, in Boulder than in Westminster.

So I mentioned yesterday's bicycle wipe-out, right? The road was wet and I took the curve at the speed I was accustomed to, and the bike went from vertical to horizontal in 0.5 seconds flat. It was one of those situations where you watch it happening in slow motion, and you feel really stupid about not being able to stop it happening. "Here we go... yep, skinned the knee, and there's my knuckles, and, yep, the forehead goes bonk. Whoo."

There were these two guys converging on the Goose Creek Path from the path that runs along Foothills from Pearl Street, and I confess that my first thought upon seeing them was please for the love of the Gods stop and stay out of my way. 'Cause the path I was on, y'see, it goes briefly up, and they were about to cross right in front of me at the top, and it's really devastating to have someone get in your way while you're toiling up a hill, even a small one. I veered to the left of the path to avoid them, and I thought uncharitable thoughts about what I perceived as typical pedestrian oblivion.

Next thing I know, I've done a face-plant on the pavement, and I'm trying to decide if I can sit up without wetting myself. And these guys about whom I was having uncharitable thoughts, they're running up to me and, very charitably, asking if I'm all right. See there? Instant karma's gonna get ya.

First words out of my mouth: "I bet that looked real stupid, huh?" I cry at the drop of a hat - it's often more a physical thing than an emotional one - and I had just impacted the pavement with somewhat more force than a hat-drop. So my voice is cracking and I'm leaking a goodly number of tears. They don't seem to find me pathetic for it. They assured me that no, no, this was a treacherous curve in the rain, it was perfectly understandable, people wipe out here all the time.

And they didn't even tell me off for not wearing my helmet. Guess they knew I was mentally kicking myself for that already. Although really I'm not sure how much good it would have done. Maybe it would have prevented the goose-egg on my forehead, but probably not the cut on the bridge of my nose.

The guy on my left, he actually offered me a handkerchief to mop my face up with. A real one. Probably cotton, woven linen-style, pristinely white, and he's suggesting I bleed all over it. I didn't knew people even carried handkerchiefs these days. They watched me mop up my scrapes, pronounced me probably not in need of stitches, and helped me get to my feet. While I satisfied myself that I wasn't concussed, he indicated that I should keep the hanky.

So, there ya go. Not everyone is a lizard-like reject from the human race. Some people actually care about others' misfortune. Some people, I might add, at the risk of sounding all pre-feminist, are actual gentlemen.

Maybe I can write these guys into my novel, should the plot call for helpful, kind strangers. Or maybe I'll just write their exemplary behavior into an already established character, such as Diane's childhood friend, the archetypal unicorn-attracting innocent with whom she will one day be married and have three daughters.

Because writers don't just take vengeance on icky people. If they're truly observant, they do something that's much more important. They celebrate good people.

If said good people are reading this right now... well, I washed off that hanky when I got to the office, and it came surprisingly clean. I'm carrying it on me now to remind myself, as I continue along my way, to emulate your kindness. You guys rock. Blessed be.