About Alyx Dellamonica

After twenty-two years in Vancouver, B.C., I've recently moved to Toronto Ontario, where I make my living writing science fiction and fantasy; I also review books and teach writing online at UCLA. I'm a legally married lesbian, a coffee snob, and I wake up at an appallingly early hour.

Clarion West Writeathon metrics

My write-a-thon count as of Tuesday was 17,139… I forgot to do any kind of count on Monday, and there was a day of switching projects and rereading and making tweaks to a long file, the better to crank out the next set of pages. The plan is to start drafting again asap.

Here’s some of the reread-and-tweak content:

Keeping her camera fixed on the ring, Sophie followed his gaze. The boy watching the mock duel from across the piazza was maybe eighteen, with curling auburn hair and a face right out of a Dante Gabriel Rosetti painting–big eyes, expressive mouth, skin like sun-burnished brass. He was surrounded by a bevy of expensively-dressed teens who were chattering and exchanging ribbons–more bets, Sophie guessed–but he was raptly watching the blow-by-blow between Acacia and the flaming man.

Rufus, Rufus, he’s our man…

The day I’ve been waiting for since Sherlock ended last fall has come: Masterpiece Mystery is back for the late summer/fall season, and they opened with “Vendetta,” which features Rufus Sewell as Roman detective Aurelio Zen. This gave Kelly and I the dual pleasure of a) getting to see Rufus play a fairly nice guy; b) in Rome! Which let me ogle important sights I plan to visit.

I enjoyed “Vendetta,” though it ended in something of a muddle. Clearly he is Up to Something, but I can’t see the greater outline of Aurelio’s plan yet, so I’m not sure what to think of it. There’s a good review here.

It looks promising, though: the setting’s great, and I like both Rufus and his love interest, Caterina Murino, with whom he has mad chemistry.


Where the homebodies are buried…

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Not long ago, I decided to do something about my desk… or, rather, the walls around my desk.

When we moved into this apartment in 2001, the walls in the larger bedroom were somewhat trashed. The previous owners had raised two sons in there and they had–among other things–driven a blue ballpoint pen into the drywall, dozens and dozens of times, leaving a couple honeycombs of blue punctures. There were lots of holes from hung objects, too, and a few chunks of adhesive that would, if removed, surely rip out even more.

Easily fixed stuff, but painting that particular room wasn’t a priority, so I just continued the trend, putting up my bulletin board in the corner where my desk lives and proceeding to stickpin or sticky note whatever I wanted to see on or around it. And then, when one photo or note got old and I had something more current, I’d put up a new one overtop.

Over time, the sedimentary layers built up. And I have this picture that my great-grandmother Phil did, that I’ve been wanting to put up… my grandma Joan gave it to me on one of our visits to Onoway, and I had it framed and have been sitting on it for ages. (We’ve been wanting to redo our pictures for awhile now, and just haven’t managed to do it, so tackling this constituted a symbolic Start of sorts.)

So I did a good winnow, tossed the bottom few layers of images, sorted the rest, hung Phil’s picture and created some free space for new stuff. It’s still essentially a jumble of images with a computer at its heart, but it was an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon, and I’m pleased with the result.

As I write this, it occurs that this is the second lunge I’ve had at the office lately; I also recently rearranged the closets. I have fantasies about disassembling the shelves and desks that dominate this room one day, taking every single thing out and making a huge pile o’ stuff in the living room while we patch (and patch, and patch some more) and paint the walls, and then, possibly, doing a radical rearrange of the space… but this will do nicely for now.

Exquisite Words

This is non-fiction, from a true crime book, and it creates a great sense of scene despite being a monologue and nothing else:

“This one? A brilliant scholar, a distinguished professor in the Accademia della Crusca no less. But, as you can see, tonight yet another disappointment has laid me low; I have just opened the head and what do I find inside? Where is al this wisdom? Boh! Inside it looks just like the Albanian hooker I opened yesterday. Maybe the professor thinks he’s better than her! But when I open them up, I find that they’re equal! And they both have achieved the same destiny: my zinc gurney. Why, then, did he tire himself out poring over so many books? Take my advice, journalist: eat, drink, and enjoy yourself—”

THE MONSTER OF FLORENCE, By Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi


My life as a slug

Slug
For a few weeks now, it has felt like I am accomplishing the bare minimum. I am writing fiction (partly thanks to the accountability ass-kick provided by the Write a Thon), teaching, and keeping body and soul together by a) acquiring and preparing food and b) beating back a certain amount of household messiness. A month or so ago I was also managing certain desirable extras: more walking, studying my Italian, reading, making sure I was in touch with my loved ones, working my chest and shoulder muscles… all that jazz.

Groove, I was in you. You felt good. I know this is just a fatigue/motivation blip, and I hope to fall back in you sooner, rather than later.