So in a vain attempt to fix the issues that Firefox was having with blogger, I lost the entire entry I was working on. Tomorrow is my free day. I may sit down and fiddle with it then. If it works I'll eventually have links and pictures and interesting things again. Until then I'll attempt to recapture what I was writing...

My "week" has come to an end. I've managed to get Fridays off for the third semester running. With that free day I can do what I want or need. Run errands. Write. Sleep in. Go to the movies. Whatever strikes my fancy. Leisure time is undervalued and overly wasted in this country. Being able to sit back and reflect, meditate, or do your own thing is very important to maintaining a healthy soul. Maybe I'll go for a run.

I gave the first two chapters of the Center to Lila (my Prose Forms and Fic II teacher) to review. I got that back from her today complete with her series of notes. It's interesting that this is the second piece that I have sent to both her and Mort. I find it amusing that where they differ in their editorial opinions it is mirror opposites. The opening section Lila wanted longer, more fleshed out. Mort on the other hand suggested an edit that would cut the two paragraph section down to about two sentences. When I told Lila this she made a concession and said to follow what Mort says. Other than that her criticisms have been helpful and will be helpful when I finish pounding out the first draft (whatever and whenever that may be), and finally go back to edit.

I'm still caught in the middle of my constant state of traveling from Haslett to Chicago and Chicago to Haslett. Though tonight, for once, feels like a bit of a reprieve from it all. I go back again this coming Wednesday for a wedding. It'll be nice when all that is over so that I can settle into a bit of a routine. I feel like I haven't quite gotten a grip on this summer semester, or this new apartment.

I'm 21.

I had started an entry earlier about the anticipation of turning 21. About waiting for my friends to arrive to go to the pub and share a pint with me. About how life is constantly going. About a lot of things. Then James walked through the door and I closed the window and decided to go life more so than type this entry.

It's now 2AM. I've definitely enjoyed the beginning of my 21st. I'm still relatively sober. And I'm carrying on a conversation with a friend over AIM. We're talking about life, about my philosophy, and about the world in general. The side of me that is pleasantly passed buzzed is saying that I should elucidate on the subject. Ranting for pages and pages and swallowing up enormous amounts of your time. The sober side is saying that no one (who hasn't come to me asking) really gives a wet smack what a half-drunk 21-year-old thinks about life. I tend to lean towards the latter, and have decided that beyond this paragraph I will spare you (for now) the ranting of a philosophical drunk.

I saw the third Pirates on Friday and it was good.

I went to my cottage this last weekend, and it was also good. I had a few beers on tap (figured I'd jump the gun a little bit). I should've done writing, but couldn't bring myself to work. Instead I ran and got some sun and I read.

I'm deep into the third book of Stephen King's Dark Tower cycle. It is very good. As everyone was, I was a little weary through The Gunslinger, and was very apprehensive after the beginning of The Drawing of the Three. The Wastelands is shaping up to be quite a howler. I get far too much time to enjoy my own books now. I have an two hours of commute-time on a train four days a week. I should be able to just hammer through the Dark Tower series over the next month. And probably read Herodotus's Histories through June. That will carry me all the way up to the release of the 7th Harry Potter, which yes I am excited for.

I sent Mort my first chapter of the Center (working title). He liked it. Offered a few good suggestions. I'll keep them in mind, but I am not allowing myself time to go back and edit. Not yet at least. I want to get the first 10 chapters done before I start cycling back. And with that I am off to bed.

I had a fresh idea strike me today. I've been wanting to do a follow up to the story about my character who survives the plane crash over the Atlantic. The one that starts out "he ate my peanuts." The story ends with him alive and floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Where do I go next? I'll tell you...

About a year ago I read this article about a thing called a micronation. These are places like Luxemberg or the Vatican, but smaller. It seems that during World War 2 a bunch of defense platforms were constructed around the border of British Territorial Waters as a defense against a feared Nazi land invasion (Operation Sealion). This land invasion never came. The majority of the platforms were sunk. Back in the 60s this rich couple claimed one of these platforms as their own. The long abandoned and dilapidated platform sits just outside of British Territorial Waters by 12 miles. It's in international water. So this couple takes this platform and declares it the sovereign nation of Sealand. Since then they've set up a government, drafted a constitution, minted coins, sold stamps, and dealt with political oppression from foreign nations. Britain claims that they have ownership of the platform which now (because of expansion, sits within British territorial waters. But, claims Sealand's king, when we declared our independence and sovereignty we were not within British territorial waters, and are therefor a de facto independent nation. It's about 6000 sq ft, and has a population of 500 people. It looks like an oil platform.

How does this factor in?

My narrator is floating out in the ocean. A raft full of peanuts and bottled water. The only survivor of another crashed Oceanic Flight (Lost Junkies feel free to giggle here). Originally I planned to dump him on the European Mainland. Hook him up with some gypsies, and send him on a mad adventure across Eastern Europe. The insanity ensues (and every hater of alliteration groans). That would be funny yes. But what about this? He is passed out on this raft. Floating for days and days. Miraculously he is blown all the way to the North Sea (defying survival logic and probably the Gulf Stream and Oceanic currents). He is on the verge of the death. Food is gone. Water is gone. His wit is starting to run dry. Then one morning he awakens to an odd tapping sound. Finds himself bumped up against one of these forgotten platforms. From there he goes to claim it as his own. And again the insanity ensues...

I dunno. Just a thought. More to come