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Writing Workout
Jan. 4th, 2012 12:57 pmNew Words: 1200 on Chapter 1 ("Those Who Came Before") Part 4 ("The Sun Callers") of Arizona. Ahote's artist wife Soyala also sees political patterns that he can't, or won't.
Total Words: 54950.
Reason For Stopping: Heading out, at least after watching some Robot Chicken.
Book Year: 1118.
Mammalian Assistance: Vegas was on his box for a few moments, then mysteriously wanted to leave.
Exercise: Here we go. I started resuming at least a mild version of my old workout regimen: In 22 minutes I did 2 miles on an elliptical, three quarters of it at jogging speed (5.5-6.5 mph), most of the rest at a brisk walk (3.5-4 mph), a little bit of it faster (6.5-7 mph), finishing with a 3.0-3.5 mph 2-minute cool down. I didn't get particularly tired (though my heart rate nicely hit the mid-140s), but my legs did start getting wobbly after a mile or so. I want to work my way back to where I was through 2009 and early 2010: Three jogged laps around our gym, a mile on the elliptical, then a round of weight lifting for a total of 45-60 minutes, 3-4 times a week. I was actually so energized by it, though, that I went home and wrote the 1200 words.
Stimulants: None.
Today's Opening Passage: A little cumbersome...
Ahote was oblivious to the Gambler’s machinations. Indeed his life had become such a happy one—despite his initial terrors—that he was even mostly oblivious to the struggles between the different factions at Chaco. When he thought about it he could still get a little unsettled thinking about the volcano, wondering if Yaapontsa was still angry, or what he might have been warning about. But generally he was too cheerful to think about such dire things very often. He had the stars, his studies—he even felt at home in Pueblo Bonito itself, because dozens of the tall red macaws filling it were talking birds, subtly reminding him of the pueblo where he was born.
Darling Du Jour: Then his face fell again and he took Ahote’s arm. “And brother…I saw our old village. Talking Bird.”
“Then it is still there!” Ahote felt his heart swelling with joyous relief.
But Alo shook his head again. “No. I should have said, I saw where it was. It’s buried under gray stone that was a fire-river before the fire cooled. Nothing grows there. Nothing at all. And certainly no people live there anymore. It makes Chaco seem fertile.”
But Ahote’s naïve heart didn’t sink. Instead it whispered that he hadn’t seen it yet himself, so maybe Alo was wrong. That perhaps he’d gone to the wrong place. The same whisper assured him that the Gambler was a man of pure heart. It was a naiveté Ahote would come to regret bitterly in later years, even while he mourned its murder.
Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Baxter; Cather; Turtledove.
