Today, I am thankful for:

Fleecy mittens and hair dryers.

Just like that, winter is upon us, in all it’s slushy, fat-flaked glory. Walking to the bus depot this morning in my many layers and insensible shoes, I noticed all sorts of gorgeous, nature-y things–a bird flitting about the wet branches of a maple tree; clouds, snow-heavy and blue, growing darker and lower by the second; obscenities traced in the snow by some well-meaning punk.

At work, we had two cancellations due to the snow, which, in town, was nothing more than a few pretty inches that melted off just past noon. In the county, I’m sure it was much more dramatic, and I miss that about living in the county: getting the snow first, and having a solid reason to cancel things. As it was, everybody on the bus had nice puddles around their feet, and rosy cheeks and noses, and everyone said chipper things like, “Cold out there, isn’t it?”, or grumpy things like, “Cold out there, isn’t it?”

I notice: snow is a whole heck of a lot more fun when you don’t have to drive anywhere.

I don’t have to drive anywhere.

Cue trumpets and theme music!

…something like the theme to Mission Impossible.

Movie Review: Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire

(If you haven’t seen the movie, back away slowly; if you haven’t read the book, run!)

Oh, I could kiss all the fine folks involved in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, I really could, and here’s why:

They got the graveyard scene just right.

Perfect. Exactly (exactly) how I pictured the whole thing–and Voldemort, well. I was hyperventilating by the time they finally showed his face, I was that excited, and he was perfect. Exactly how I’d imagined him.

Also:

Whatever else they cut (lots, and lots) they did not cut the ferret scene. Hallelujah.

I truly admire the brave souls who undertook this most monstrous of tasks, because the question is not only How do you make a movie of a book the size of a small child? but also How do you squeeze in all those bloody subplots without making an eight hour movie, and What can you take out without damaging the story beyond repair?

Whew. I couldn’t do it.

Even though Goblet whipped by, in all its two-and-a-half hour glory (not only because I was so engrossed in the film, but because the whole thing is contrived of quick, quick, little scenes–so many things squeezed in!), and even though it relied rather heavily on the assumption that the viewer has, of course, read the book, I was astonished at how much they did fit in. Really, I can’t complain.

Much.

Because what is a review, if it just gushes on and on about how friggin’ cool the movie is?

So here is my complaint:

Barty Crouch. Both of them. In attempting to shorten that particular subplot, I feel a whole lot was lost–for example, reading the book I was tremendously conflicted about Barty Crouch, Sr. What kind of man sends his son, screaming and protesting his innocence, to prison, really? And then helps his son escape, only to keep him imprisoned by a house elf for ten years or so?

I couldn’t decide, but I sure didn’t like the guy.

In the movie, sure, Mr. Crouch is pretty intense toward the beginning, but mostly he’s no more worth considering than Fudge–not terribly likeable, a little shifty-eyed, but overall, I wasn’t able to form much of an opinion about him at all.

Now, really, I can handle the absence of Winky the Elf; I can handle not getting even a glimpse of the LeStranges (Bellatrix, in particular, I’d been hoping to see), and I suppose I can bear the loss of the Percy Weasley subplot–but I’m not sure I can cope with such a complete alteration of Barty Crouch’s character that he comes out looking like a victim. What was that about him admitting to Harry that he’d lost his family? I’m pretty sure everybody else was muttering about the scandal behind his back, in the book, but there he was, all soggy-eyed, confessing to Harry that losing one’s family changes one forever.

And then he just dies.

And his death is only mentioned once, right after it happens, and nobody seems terribly concerned about how he died, or why, or, particularly, who killed him.

I suppose that little gaps in logic like that (or perhaps gaps in my attention span–there might’ve been more to it that I missed, I admit, and I apologize in advance if I’m wrong) are permissable in a huge, brilliant movie like this, and, though I caught a couple others, only one more is worth mentioning:

Barty Jr. went to Azkaban. As far as we (the viewers) know, there’s no mention in the movie of him escaping/faking his death/and so on; also, as far as we know, Sirius Black is the only one to have escaped Azkaban, ever. But when Barty Jr. is apprehended, Dumbledore turns to a teacher and says, “Call Azkaban, I think they’ll find they’re missing a prisoner.”

What?

Does he mean that the dementors hadn’t noticed Barty’s absence, or that he’d escaped, but there’d been absolutely no brouhaha about it at all?

If I missed something, please, correct me.

In summary, though, The Goblet of Fire rocked–the maze, even without the blast-ended skrewts and the Sphinx, was way cooler than I could have imagined, and Fred and George were in the film a bunch (a sure way to make me happy), and the kids’ acting has improved so much, and the dragons, and the mermaids, and oh! Mad-Eye Moody…

They did my favorite book in the series (so far) such spectacular justice, I was up all night rehashing it, and I’m afraid I drove my husband quite crazy–but ah, well. He ought to know what he’s in for: Narnia’s up next. They make two of my favorite books into movies and then release them within weeks of each other. I can’t stand it; I might explode.

Draco Malfoy is a total hottie

I’m leaving (mere minutes from now) to go see The Goblet of Fire.

Positively, I’m giddy.

Right up there with watching paint dry

Track my novel’s progress.

In Which She Procrastinates Further and Feels a Bit Guilty

So, when I said I’d be putting off the blogging for a month in order to knuckle down and write a novel, I didn’t realize that blogging would be an excellent excuse to ignore the novel for a bit…

And here I am. Not working on my novel.

But the novel itself, well. 50,000 words is a lot of stinkin’ words, did you know that? I spent 4 hours (4 BLOODY HOURS) at the Black Drop this morning–that’s breakfast and lunch–and all I’ve got to show for it is 2,000 more words, a radically revised plot line and a bad stomachache.

The realization that I should be writing 2,000+ words a day hit me then, as I computed “4 hours” into “2,000 words” and felt rather like bursting into tears.

This is fun, remember? Not competitive! Fun! A raging blast, as a matter of fact!

As was inevitable, my computer shut down in the middle of a particularly burly moment of inspiration (not really: by then I was looking for an excuse to pack it in, go home and take a nap–though this was not, of course, what I had in mind), and I hurried home to try and resurrect the sick little laptop and (please, God, please) what remained of my novel.

Thankfully, the novel’s still in one piece–all 4500 words. But you know you’re getting desperate to meet the word count when you start employing elaborate “In Which He Encounters a Stranger on a Desolate Road and Engages Him in Conversation”-style chapter titles. Eh.

Also, I’ve taken to changing the background on my laptop every few minutes–another tactic for avoiding work–and it’s currently leopard print. All is well in the world.

49,399 words to go, and I’m home free!

If I’m quiet through the month of November, here’s why–I’m busy feeling bad about not writing. Rest assured I’ll be back in December with a whole arsenal of odd happenings, but in the meantime, let’s just slow this page down and reflect. Talk amongst yourselves and all that.

Oh, and the Black Eyes & Neckties show at the 3B was awesome. I got beer in my hair and a bad cold and the whole shebang (really? Is it actually spelled like that?), and apparently I was one of the only three people on State St. who didn’t dress up for Halloween–Sarah and Lyle, my cohorts, being the other two. Ah, well.

And what are you gonna be?

Yes, I definately just saw a big pink bunny tear up Ellis St. on a crotch rocket.

I love Halloween.