Going to the conf'rence and I'm

Gonna get ah-ah-autographs!
Going to the conf'rence and I'm
Gonna listen to-o-o-o-o-o panels!
Gee, I'm glad I write prose 'cause I
Stink at all this poetry and I'm
Going to the confrence I love!

Or, to mangle Cole Porter's de-licious De-Lovely:

I feel the sudden urge to pen
Another novel now and then
So control your desire to scream
While I prosify my dream!
This dream I've written, I hope could mean
A Hugo award that's all for me
But to keep my ego low
I'll use a pen name, so nobody knows!
I'm not me me me me
I'm Ray Ray Ray Ray
And so far I've writ ZERO...!
(Take it away)

The night is young
The time is right
To pull another
Insomniatic night
It's obsessive
It's compulsive
It's - de-writing!

I understand
The reason why
You have writer's block
'Cause so do I!
It's de-stracting
It's di-sturbing
It's - de-writing!

To the pop of caffine
Off I'll hop on a Midsummer's Dream
To the sweet beat
Of my Les Mis on Stero -
Dream of Hugo!

So, please be sweet
My chickadee
And when I call,
Please, muse, come to me!
It's de-votion
It's di-lemma
It's de-motion
It's da-trauma
It's de-epic
It's de-blank page
It's de-writing!

Significantly better attempt. And, 'struth, the caffine is kicking in now. I ran across the third section of Long Have I Loved Thee, and found myself absolutely cracking up over those two chapters and a half (the terminus of that particular abandoned novel). I'd forgotten the Odious Mr. Chelmsford who wrote that terrible note requesting that our poor heroine, the rather willful Julia Garvers, not wear any scent when she attended the opera with him (she's been forced into going to save what's left of the family name - silly b(r)others!). The prose goes something like this:

Book the Third: Chapter XIX. Wherein Julia Attends the Opera and Mr Delford is a Nuisance.

By seven a note came round from Lady Branwell that she had been asked to Lady Montague's card party, and did not expect to return until much later. The actual letter ran something like this:

Humphrey -

Am having a splendid time at Lottie's. Have decided to stay for her card party. Certain well-placed friends to come - should not like to miss it. By all means, keep the wretched girl at home! Have the jitters merely contemplating her sharp tongue in such genteel society. Greatly deserve a night to myself, after all my sufferings. Lottie always provides such marvellous strawberries and cream.

- AB

Lord Branwell brought the news to Julia, as she began her toilette for the opera. He did not comment more on the curious position he had found his wife's charge in that afternoon - for he privately suspected that Miss Julia Garvers' life was one passionate embrace after another and, if he were honest with himself, he was quite enjoying her tumultuous career, as were the other peers at the Club, to whom Lord Branwell oft repeated the escapades of one Miss Julia Garvers.

But, for all that, Lord Branwell felt some sort of tenderness for his harridan wife's protégéé, and so asked the highly practical question, "You're, eh, you're going out, then?"

Julia sighed and handed him Mr Chelmsford's note in return for Lady Branwell's. Lord Branwell inspected the note, muttering around his pipe, "That's the fellow from today, or the sallow one?"

"Neither," Julia said, taking back her note. "The first is Mr Delford, a…a dear friend. The other is Mr Smith, my dancing master. Of sorts."

"Hum!" opined Lord Branwell. "And this fellow?"

Julia's expression of distaste answered well enough for her.

"Here at eight, hmm?" Lord Branwell continued, tapping his pipe against his teeth. Then, "Well, I suppose I ought to wait until you've gone off, before hopping down to the club. Seems the thing to do. Agatha would thank me."

And so, at eight, it was Lord Branwell who met Mr Chelmsford at the door, and conversed with the fellow until Julia could be sent for. My Lord's impression of Mr Chelmsford agreed in every particular with society's opinion at large, and so when Julia descended the stair, he pulled her aside, and asked her if she wouldn't like him to make some excuse or another for her.

Julia shook her head, and patted his arm, saying, "You are very kind. But Mr Delford has promised to attend tonight, and so I am in very good hands, as you see."

Lord Branwell only replied that he hoped Mr Delford's hands were better than his lips. So fully stocked with tales for the club, Lord Branwell handed over Miss Garvers to Mr Chelmsford, muttering as he watched Julia step into the carriage, that it was almost strange enough to make one suffer through Gluck and Handel to see how things would turn out!

Our heroine, alas, had no idea that she was the delight of the port and sherry peers - nor, I am sure, would she have been gratified to learn with what hearty laughter her sufferings were greeted. She had no sooner pulled her skirts about her, and folded her hands primly on her lap, than Mr Chelmsford closed the door, and took the seat - not across from her - but beside our heroine, and - I shudder to relate - he sniffed.

"You are wearing scent, Miss Garvers," he noted.

Julia nodded. She was, in fact, wearing half a bottle of rose hips.

Well, it makes me laugh. I'm only sorry that although I managed to get up through the chase within the carriage (much shifting of seats), I didn't get to the bit where Mr. Delford is a nuisance. Oh, Eduard! Eduard! I'm almost sorry he debuted in Not All Wealth rather than in his own novel. Poor guy.

Which brings me to the thought of free will. (What doesn't?) I was using the metaphor of how when we create we put ourselves into our works, although we are NOT our works (e.g. if I paint a tree, it's not because I'm a tree but rather because I'm in a state to appreciate the beauty of said tree). The difference between what we create and ourselves as God's creation, of course, is that He gave His human creations Free Will (oh, and created us in truth - little things ;). Which got me to thinking: "True, but don't we give our characters a modicum of free will as well?" I'm thinking, naturally, of the all-too-common occurrences of when a character begins taking hold of his own plot. The answer might be that our characters, when we're writing well, have a sort of free will because we ourselves are in possession of free will. Which mean that God must have free will. However, since God is perfection, His Will is always perfect - as He showed us while on earth. But it's an interesting mental puzzle.

In complete antithesis to this, I've The Producers playing in the background. Silly stuff. Good music, though. Which gets me to thinking (oy! I'm sounding like Fagin in Oliver! - "I'm reviewing/The situation/Can villain be a villain all his life?"): how much are we willing forgive for good music? In the case of opera, apparently a lot. Phantom as an opera is really rather shallow, La Boheme, Tosca and all the rest are too, for the most part. No offense to Cole Porter, but frequently it's his music which makes the show and not the other way around. Frustrating. In this form which is meant to be the culmination of all arts, we more often than not put too much emphasis on the music and almost never enough on the plot. Which is why, one imagines, Les Miserables is the fiery wonder that it is. D'ja know that it's the only show that earned a unanimous "10" from the Theatre in England group - the group which goes to all these amazing London season shows and so Really Know Their Theatre. Int'resting stuff.

Anywho, enough random musings. P'raps I'll actually write. That'd be nice.

Mood: Yup. I've got one.
Music: "I Wanna Be a Producer" from The Producers
Thoughts: Thank Heavens for the Book of Wisdom.