Been watching episodes of The Good Life courtesy Netflix. It's a British sitcom that came out in the mid-'70s. (When it was released in the U.S. they inexplicably re-named it "The Good Neighbors.") The premise is that a corporate drone decides on his 40th birthday, with the support of his wife, to quit his job and try to become self-sufficient . . . in Surbiton. They plow up their yard to plant crops, get a goat and chickens, and try their hand at various domestic chores such as churning their own butter and weaving their own wool. Their neighbors, upper crust middle-class folks, are appalled, and provide commentary and periodic assistance as their efforts go awry. Wacky hyjinks ensue.
Matthew introduced me to the show, who in turn was addicted to it by his folks. A charming series. And they ended it when it was still popular because, *gasp*, they'd said everything they had to say and were done.
Anyhoo, while I was watching the opening episodes, I had a brief flash of "could the Fosters become self-sufficient?" This is what happens after a couple blackberry pies and talk of jam, I tell you. Thankfully, sanity intruded immediately. I reminded myself that I can't grow a ficus. If I try to nurture a plant, it dies. The blackberries are thriving because I am stoically ignoring them except when they start fruiting. I also am sensitive to the point of allergic to sunlight (thanks to lupus), Matthew has a bad back, and I'm sure our home owners association would have hysterics en masse if we started keeping chickens. But I did find myself wondering if blueberries grow in this part of the country. Blueberry pie would be a nice addition to our summer harvest. Am I defying the capricious gods of agriculture to even contemplate such an undertaking?
Received a 64-day "Nice writing here but didn't like it enough to buy" personal rejection from Ellen Datlow of SCI FICTION.
New Words: 600, -100
On the folktale. Galvanized to finish it, I plowed ahead and finally made it to zero draft. Did a couple passes and managed to cull out 100 words. Going to give it a few more passes and then hand it over to the hubby to first reader. He's getting a bit white around the eyes with everything he needs to do for Dragon*Con, but I'll bribe him with pie. Plan to toss it up to Critters next week, and if all goes well, it'll be out the door week after that. Whew. This was one was rather like pulling teeth.
Club 100 For Writers