I drove to my parents’ house Tuesday evening after work. I had planned to bake a ridiculously over-the-top cake on Christmas Eve, so we’d decided I’d get there the day before and be able to spend all day Christmas Eve there.

However, I was fighting off a cold by that point, so we decided to chill out instead. We watched Rush Hour, which we all enjoyed greatly, then I screened Once Upon a Time in China for my Mom, which she appreciated. Two good flicks there.

My sister and her family (husband and four children) came over during the evening on Christmas Eve. The kids were great; high-energy and high-maintenance, but pure and enjoyable. We opened each other’s presents, then they all went home.

Christmas Day was a low-key affair; my parents and I opened the rest of our presents, then we spent the rest of the day playing the board game Reminiscing, which is essentially Trivial Pursuit with historical questions.

On Friday, I felt well enough to attempt the cake. And, to my satisfaction, it turned out well: three layers of cinnamon and ginger spice cake, sandiwching a peppermint white chocolate mousse and a mini chocolate chip white chocolate mousse, smothered in decadent chocolate ganache and covered with dancing gingerbread men. It looke dimpressive, too. Unfortunately, my camera lost its battery charge and my parents were out of batteries, so I couldn’t take a picture.

On Saturday, I left my parents, did some errands, and returned to my apartment. It was a wreck; I’d left it in quite some disarray as my cold was building up and I couldn’t summon the energy to straighten up. So, I rolled up my sleeves and tucked in.

There’s something immensely satisfying about the act of putting something in order. That’s what I felt as I assembled lamps, put out several bags of garbage, tossed laundry into the washing machine, and vacuumed. It felt good.

It felt even better to pop open my laptop and write some more of Seeing Things Invisible. I didn’t even write much, and what I did write I’ll probably never use (the scene I finished just doesn’t further the story much, and I can reference it in other scenes without describing it directly). But I wrote something.

And now, energized, I’m ready to rock.

First, for perhaps the first time, Tolkien gets more credit than he deserves, rather than less.

Spent last night curled up in bed, watching MST3K and anime.

The MST3K was The Hellcats, an incomprehensible film about wild 1960′s biker culture, impressively padded with shots of people riding bikes and tense confrontations that are resolved with feats of manliness and have no impact whatever on the plot.

Then came two episodes of Please Teacher!, an anime which every reviewer seems to describe the same. It’s a silly, horny teen comedy in which is embedded an amazingly strong romance. The protagonists stumble through an increasingly complicated relationship, doing their best to do the right thing by each other. Interspersed with “Oops, I grabbed the wrong person’s breast” scenarios. Oddly enough, it works.

Then I tried two episodes of One, an anime OVA that I picked up fansubbed because it looked interesting. I can only assume it’s based on a dating sim; it has that classic “tons of cute girls all interested in the same mysterious guy” plot. The mysterious guy is even drawn half-shadowed a lot of the time, which is common in dating sims.

The plot of One is completely incomprehensible at this point, though I think that’s intentional. Apparently, a bunch of girls all knew one guy at various points in their lives, but their memory of him has been erased some time in the past year. He’s entering their lives again now, and they’re beginning to remember their histories with him.

Unfortunately, the director favored extremely lengthy shots in an apparent effort to make it more moody (and pad the anime); I shouted “Do something!” at the screen a few times. Worse, the animation is often inept; a character will shrink way too fast as she runs away from us, or a character’s hand will leap all over a violin as he plays it. Still, it’s an interesting little show.

In other news, I’m somewhat depressed. This is due mostly to an ongoing crisis with somebody close to me. I’m not directly involved, but it’s still a weight on my heart.

As a result, I’m not writing. I haven’t written a thing since Friday, despite my commitment to write 300 words a day. Well, no writing over the weekend was understandable, but nothing yesterday? This is bad.

On the other hand, what would I write?

There’s something about the holidays that simply warps time and space. Everybody’s really busy, at a level beyond typicaly day-to-day busy-ness. This means that events are in flux; there are lots of concerts and plays to see, and regular weekly meetings are cancelled.

I had a good weekend. Saturday was spent shopping, mainly. I spent Sunday morning and early afternoon at a party my parents held, then drove straight to a nearby church to meet with some friends to talk about our writing projects. We had a good time and discussed our current writing problems, though it was a bit awkward to do so in the middle of a busy cafeteria, with people chatting and toddlers rushing by.

I’m back at work today, and will be here tomorrow as well. I’ll come back on Friday, and probably Saturday as well, since I’ll be taking off all day Wednesday. We’ll see.

Wednesday night was to be a free night. This was not altogether ideal; my wonderful art teacher cancelled due to a rather bad cold, with the knowledge that I won’t be seeing here again for several weeks (she’s going home for the holidays). She’s a good friend, and I’ll miss her.

But I knew I’d have the evening free. I planned to bake some cookies, write, and do a bit of reading. I’d even bought a few new books for the occasion: a complete collection of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy novels, and Joseph Heller’s Catch 22.

I batted a .333; after dinner, I cracked The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy compilation and didn’t stop until I reached page 275 (all the way through the original Hitchhiker novel and within thirty pages of the end of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe), at which point an alrm whimpered in the back of my mind that maybe bedtime was near. It was 11:00 p.m.

I half expected Hitchhiker to be a mind-blowing, brilliant novel. It wasn’t. Instead, it was a consistently funny, simply entertaining book. Which is exactly the kind of book I tend to gravitate towards these days.

But perhaps that style is remarkable in itself. It can be awfully hard to write a tale that’s simply fun. The temptation to become the next Hemingway sneaks in with alarming ease.

In other news: new poll. On the right.

Saalon is sadly mistaken. t.A.T.u. Paragate (however you capitalize it) will be a plotless, pointless anime with weird pseudo-sexualization but no overt sex. This, I foretell.

I still want to see it, though.

And, hey, Texhnolyze (the latest ABe/Ueda/Konaka project) and Kino’s Travels (by the director of lain) are coming out in a couple of months. Can’t wait.

Blast. Blast, blast, blast. The internet connection at work died intermittently yesterday, preventing me from posting to this journal.

So, here’s my response to the writing challenge (the 500-word monologue); feel free to post your own response.

And without further ado…

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