| The New Computer Has Arrived! |
[Feb. 9th, 2010|08:22 pm] |
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And I am so happy! It'll take a little while to pay for it, but totally worth it -- it's quite a jump in computing power --it's a Toshiba Satellite M505-54940 and it is just about the sexiest thing you've ever seen. I still have to learn a lot about it, but for right now, I'm just happily astonished that I can sit in the living room and work online :-) Obviously this is old hat for some of you all, but this is the newest, coolest piece of technology I've ever been allowed to touch. Squeee!!!! Let's see if it makes me as productive as I hope! |
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| Today Should Be Interesting |
[Feb. 9th, 2010|08:52 am] |
I've just written this , which is both the second finest thing I've written this week and also likely the metaphorical match to put to the woodpile that's been soaking in gas for a while. I am going to ask you that unless you are honest and for true a regular reader of ECN to stay out of this debate; I'd love to hear what you think, but keep that here. I am dying to know how this turns out; I am fascinated by the potential brilliance in my community and I want to know if they will go the way I think they will.
If they don't, I shall have some more free time in my life.
Today I have to work on a book for a client; I'm hoping my new computer FINALLY comes today -- I think the tons of snow have slowed it down on its journey from Florida. There's a nice hot pot of coffee on, and I've got some great plots (both literary and otherwise) percolating.
I've other stuff to write about, but my brain's not quite there yet, and I've yet to read all y'all this morning. So with a note that I've got prayers going out for a number of you all and I hope surgeries go well and recoveries even better, I'm going to close for now.
Except to say, man, life is pretty freaking awesome some days. You realize this could all turn into a disaster of unmitigated proportions, right? But you throw the dice anyway, because it's the right thing to do. It's terrifying and exhilirating, and it's my favorite sort of game, where one of the pieces can't be moved. Let's see what happens. |
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| Reflections a Year On |
[Feb. 8th, 2010|06:50 am] |
A year ago, something terrible happened, and my friend's wife, son and stepson were killed in a horrible car accident. I didn't really know her, we'd had a couple of conversations, but I was struck by how large a hole her death left in the universe.
She was a person, bright light the sun, and she lived the hell out of her life. Not everyone agreed with what she did all the time, but I'll tell you what: I've never seen a person who was more consistently happy and excited, no matter what the situation was. She did not live life in half-measures, and I've tried, over this past year, to learn from her and live more according to her example.
Sometimes I've succeeded, and sometimes I've failed, but the effort, in and of itself, has been a reward beyond explanation. Everything else I've to say about this is not for you; not this way, not in text and far flung connections. If we were together, talking, raising a glass to the universe's bright, fiery stars, then yes. But now, today, I'm going to mark the day as one of quiet and mindfulness and that certain sharp sorrow that comes with the death of a contemporary. I'm uncertain of my judgment at the moment and my words fly too fast even when I know what I'm doing. So radio silence from Chez CB today; tomorrow I'll pick up the practice and start again. |
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| Just a Little Story To Illustrate The Two Types Of People In This World |
[Feb. 7th, 2010|07:32 am] |
First, a little backstory.
We have a cat, Hazel, who is made of pure evil. She's also 17 years old, which means she's about 140 in cat years. She's losing her mind, and every now and then (like once a season) forgets where the cat box is. We have to show it to her, she remembers, it's all good.
Got that?
Part two: The children sleep upstairs, I sleep downstairs. This way the children can not get out of the house without me knowing about it. (See: Cindy's adherence to bare minimum of parenting standards)
Part three: We never, ever, ever draw the shower curtain in this house unless someone is actively using the shower or my Mom is visiting and we don't want her to see how dirty the tub is. True fax, that, because obviously, if you were an evil killing monster type beast, you would hide behind the shower curtain. The children tell me no, but they're off at school all day and what do they know?
Stage set?
The other night, I was the LAST one to fall asleep in the house (long, long, and ultimately very boring story, although I now know more about oil tanker construction than I'd ever thought even remotely possible) I slept on the couch, next to the stairs, so I can attest with absolute certainty that the children did not come down the stairs between 11, when I went to sleep, and 4, which is time to get up.
Upon rising, as is my wont, I went to the bathroom. (I know, a thrill a minute! I'll leave out the bit where I ponder if I'm old enough yet to require geritol...)
The shower curtain, she is drawn.
Feeling particularly brilliantly butch, (evil killing monster beast wants to take me on at 4 am after 5 hours sleep and no coffee? BRING IT!) I pull back the shower curtain, and discover, in the far corner of the tub, that Hazel has apparently had a spell of forgetting where the cat box is again.
This is where we discover the two types of people there are in this world.
Type One said, upon reading this, "That's a pretty smart cat you've got there. I wonder how she pulled the curtain all the way across, without first growing oppossible thumbs! So considerate -- not something you see in a feline, really, all that often."
The second type of people, upon reading this, said, "Oh, God, Cindy, where did you put the shattered remnants of his corpse? On what planet would pulling the curtain even begin to serve as an adequate response to a housekeeping catastrophe (pun not intended, but we'll take it anyway!) of this magnitude?"
If you are a Type One person, go apologize to someone today. It doesn't even matter if you don't have the first clue why you're doing it; you need to. Trust me on this one. |
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| Let Us Have A Moment of Seriousness |
[Feb. 5th, 2010|12:53 pm] |
One of the things that's REALLY hard to do when you have cancer is to take in enough calories. I'm not sure why, exactly, because I am not a doctor, but I think it has to do with throwing up a lot plus being sick takes a lot of energy. There are other people who have a hard time taking in calories, too.
And this post just came over my work email, and I've permission to share it. I know some of you all have cancer, I know some of you all have loved ones with cancer, I know some of you all are health care providers or are in a position where this would be good info to have. I haven't tried them, I don't know anything about them, but it seems like a really good idea:
Nothing like a nurse sitting you down and talking nutrition. You
see, Sable is an oncology (cancer) nurse, who found her patients
desperate for easy to eat, flavorful and nutritious foods that
would not announce to the world that they had cancer.
So she stepped into the kitchen and after a few burnt baking trays and
many years of collaborating with cancer patients and
specialists, she created a line of Nutritional Empowerment Bars
that are baked like a brownie, unbelievably delicious, soft -
yet have a nice bite into it texture and are super nutritious.
Sable is offering 25% off to HARO members; just insert coupon
code HARO into the shopping cart at http://bit.ly/9877pN
Sable's bars offer nutritional value enjoyed by the cancer
community, busy moms and dads, athletes and teenagers. So pass
this coupon along to anyone you know in need of Nutritional
Empowerment!
By the way, Sable is so committed to the cancer
community that she donates a bite of every bar to cancer
research programs - always the nurse.
Brought to you by the fact that I still miss my Daddy. |
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| The Real Impact of Amazon's Behavior This Past Weekend? |
[Feb. 5th, 2010|12:02 pm] |
I had to just place an order for a work project. And who did I order from -- even though it wasn't my money on the line? -- BN.com. Not Amazon. And I bet I'm not the only person who will do that.
Now I need to explore Indiebound's Add a Store to your site options. *nods* |
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| I have found a second reason for Manhattan's continued existence. |
[Feb. 5th, 2010|11:38 am] |
1. Lots of awesome sushi places
2. The Russian Vodka Room.
Feel free to suggest other things, so that when I make my next trip to that awful, terrible place full of people I will have an agenda. Ideally, everything should be somehow connected to 7th avenue, as that is the majority of my NYC knowledge. |
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| Is there a term for... |
[Feb. 5th, 2010|09:36 am] |
The art of tracking a web story's journey from initial posting to appearing on a high profile site (such as Boing Boing, for example, or Making Light) Sometimes I think examining the web of connections that brings relatively obscure tidbits in front of millions of eyes is more interesting than the tidbits themselves; rather a virtual provenance sort of thing.
And sometimes, I just want a Hello Kitty chainsaw.
Very much. |
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| And a special shout out |
[Feb. 5th, 2010|08:17 am] |
Today to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) kmessner As I have just learned it is National Weatherperson's Day! Did you know what the tradition is for National Weatherperson's Day is? It is for said Weatherperson to take you somewhere where the weather is NICE!!!! (Because obviously they would know where that is!) |
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| Rise and Shine, My Freaky Darlings! |
[Feb. 5th, 2010|07:59 am] |
Things I must do today: email Vincent Diamond about what books go together in series; preferably in order. You'd think I'd know; I don't. Things slip out of my mind if they're not immediately relevant. Sometimes this bothers me, sometimes I think this is an evolutionary coping mechanism.
Things I must do today: a list o' questions re website copy; answer interview questions for client re: specialty retailing ; write marketing piece designed to attract beaucoup business; blog for dollars, social network, build three web pages ; finish that gosh-darn diabetes book, follow up with LC to let him know writing samples have been forwarded; write a chapter of 12 steps and send it off to overly indulgent editor, work on overdue book, progress check with client, call with client to refine marketing piece I wrote this morning. (ETA: Doesn't this really need a Hitchhiker's Guide reference to future tenses somehow? call with client to refine marketing piece I will have already written later this morning but have not yet begun to do?)(ETA: Time for a break, my brain hurts!)
Drink coffee.
Rejoice at progress made in a novel; last night a piece I've been waiting on just dropped in my head. I hesitate really to talk about my writing process, as there isn't one, technically: the sit and wait until your fish is ready to be caught technique is not very sexy, and it has one major drawback in that it takes me many years sometimes to get from original idea to actually having the idea be well rounded and full of merit. Where I've gone wrong (albeit to some extent also right) is that I've gotten in the habit of writing and selling the original idea. But my ideas are like cucumbers set in vinegar; sure, you can eat them straight away and have some joy of it, but to really get the whole effect, you need the whole mess to set a while, perhaps while I grow up and have the life experiences that allow me to understand what happens next.
People bitch about why Harper Lee wrote only one book. I get it. I completely get it. There are nuances there that would take me the better part of my life to get to, too -- and this all happened in slow time, where no blogs spilled open the hearts and minds of contemporaries, where research took time, where memes didn't prompt self-revelation.
Today too must I write a review of my most recent review book. And this book was spectacular; I hit page 512 and I sat down and I sobbed, cried like a baby, for the better part of an hour, because something terrible happened and it just killed me. And this is the first time in a long time that I read a book without being aware of the writing, when I was so engaged with a character that what they experienced caused me real emotional pain, where the fate of someone who doesn't exist completely altered my view of the universe. If I'd not promised to be secretive, I'd be shaking you all by the shoulders and saying you must read this book; I have, so I guess you are left with buying every starred title that appears in the PW SF/F/Horror column for a while.
(I so wish I had the money to do that!)
Strange things come up missing in my house. We now seem to have lost the broom, which is an odd thing to lose, as it is five feet long and blue and bears a spiderman sticker on it, in case of emergency.
Harmony and I this morning, I to her, first: "You know, I've traveled across the country carrying less crap than you bring to school every day."
Her to me: "Immaterial and irrelevant, Ma. You don't give a damn what people think about what you look like."
What do you say to that? I mean, yes, she's right, but that's not the point here. And yes, props to the arguing skills; I am proud of my daughter. But still. So I threw a snowball at her, messed up her hair (!) and went back inside.
They have captured the alleged murderer, in case you were wondering. And today FedEx should be bringing my laptop (yay!) so I can work in many places, at many times, and ramp up my productivity exponentially.
Today my mother in law leaves for North Carolina for a month or so, leaving my father in law to fend for himself. This should prove interesting, in much the same way that putting a crazed marketing ethicist wearing a chinchilla coat and a machine gun in the middle of a PETA executive meeting to discuss the propriety of using celebrity images without permission in order to create the impression of endorsement of PETA's position would prove interesting. (I'm stuck here on the concept of ermine bandoliers. Not that I'm actually a fur wearer, for a number of reasons which include the fact I don't own any garments that cost more than my vehicles, but I really do dislike most of the weasel family, and that shit would be funny. Come with me conceptually, give Queen Elizabeth some firepower, and what do you get? Ermine bandoliers, I bet.)
Did I mention it was Friday? YAY FRIDAY! Now, wherever you are, right this minute, I want you to do a little "It's Friday!" Muppet dance. And should you be somewhere where people aren't prone to such performance art and do not take it well, simply tell you the computer made you do it. Everything is the internet's fault, eventually. Even this. |
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| For future reference |
[Feb. 4th, 2010|08:01 pm] |
When I find the genius who said, "Recorders? Verily, we can make them out of cheap plastic and distribute them to all of the children in the land!" I shall take him and bind him tight with the frayed remnants of my nerves and put him in a small room with at least six enthusiastic aspiring musicians who are convinced that louder is indeed better. And I will leave him there until I feel bad about it, and then I will leave him there ten minutes longer, just to be sure.
And I shall film it, and I shall sell it to other parents, and I will be very, very, very rich. |
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| Because I believe my flist knows everything |
[Feb. 4th, 2010|10:28 am] |
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Who is the hip hop artist who does a cover of the song that came out when I was little with the refrain "That's just the way it is, some things will never change" that has a lot of piano in it, then and now? I think the original was Steve Winwood, but I could be wrong about that. |
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| Today, We're Going to Talk About The Future of Publishing as We Know It |
[Feb. 4th, 2010|08:45 am] |
Why?
Because I like the mental image of a screaming wet wildcat sliding down a glacier face, holding frantically to the ice with wide-splayed claws as it descends toward a pool filled with starving sharks, alligators, and piranha, none of whom bother trying to eat each other, each cry filled with the words "Artistic integrity" "Market dynamics" "Format doesn't matter" and so on.
Ideally, the wildcat would be wearing spectacles.
And have an iPad in his pocket.
One of the neat things I like to do, when I like to do neat things, is ponder the future of publishing. Thomas Friedman, who wrote The World is Flat, and Chris Anderson, who wrote The Long Tail, have a lot to do with my thoughts on the publishing industry, and I do think everyone reading this should read those.
I don't actually think there's anything wrong with the story telling end of the equation. It's the making a living at this gig that is becoming increasingly problematic. I would just like to point out, merely as a point of historical reference, that there has NEVER been a time that I'm aware of where the greater portion of authors and publishers and booksellers have not been struggling financially; it's not like we had this knowledge and somehow lost it. The mega best seller model works, somewhat, in a world without internet particularly well. Agatha Christie got by with a new book every Christmas -- and the wait and expectation helped drive sells.
Anticipation is a powerful sales tool; for a modern equivalent, look at Harry Potter. But it is passing difficult to create anticipation when your audience is raised on instant gratification; especially in e-publishing, you see authors churn out 85,000 word novels only to have readers, in the week of release, ask, "So what's next?" You have to have some sort of draw already to build anticipation, it doesn't work if you're the CB Potts of the world.
It's a GREAT time to be a niche author; I think we'll see more and more narrowing and specialization. For example, Hadley Rille combines sci fi and archeology, ChiZine does speculative with a certain twist, Cecilia Tan's Circlet does hardcore bdsm queer sci fi. But we can't forget that economics still works: the narrower your appeal, the slimmer the paycheck.
To make this a viable model, we have to reduce costs. That means what? Better use of POD technology; a greater shift toward e-books. Self publishing looks attractive to many, but then you have the headaches of distribution and especially marketing.
Marketing books is hard, people. You're pushing a product to a very small percentage of the public, during a recession. And 99.9% of the book marketing I see fails on one fundamental level: we don't sell the benefit to the reader. Every other type of product, we talk about how it would make the customer's life better, more efficient, healthier, more fun, full of crazy monkey sex...but not books. We say "Here's a synopsis. Here's the author. You want it or not?"
Sometimes we put nekkid fish ladies on the cover.
Sometimes we put on people who have no physical resemblance of anyone inside the book out in front of it, to satisfy marketing's perceptions of what will sell.
I think we're nowhere near figuring it out. I think what we're doing is not working. I think we're going to see more specialization and a collapse of the writer-to-reader relationship; we will see authors having to be performance artists as much as writers.
We will see Cindy realize ten minutes has well been and gone. So now I'll close for the moment and say this: What do you think is going to happen to the future of publishing as we know it?
For bonus points, what color are the spectacles on the wildcat? |
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| You want to see cover images, don't you? |
[Feb. 3rd, 2010|12:13 pm] |
I wrote a short story collection, entitled Silver Foxes, which Lethe is releasing at some point, and millions of people will buy it, and then I will be able to fund a giant sleep over party at my house!
With this in mind, want you to see some cover images? NSFW, obviously, and gay male erotic art, so don't act all shocked and bemoaning the purity of your eyeballs. I know you people. I know where those eyeballs have been!
( Aren't they cute? )
I have to find out if I'm supposed to tell the artist's name or keep it a secret (or if the name I know is the name to use...it is AMAZING how many names people have and what names go where. I say namespace is an interest, but my god, it is really the bane of my existence. That's why my next child/pet/spouse/company I'm going to let name itself. |
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| Note to self |
[Feb. 3rd, 2010|11:10 am] |
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Write a book (preferably a best seller) on the magpie mind. Transform distractability and having the attention span the length of the yacht will dock just off of New Orleans so I can have gumbo every day. |
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| It Is A Morning of Questions |
[Feb. 3rd, 2010|09:53 am] |
This morning on the news, there was a segment about an artist who basically sprayed down an entire house with many inches of water, and it froze, and now the house is encased in ice; it's all a metaphor, apparently, for the housing crisis. And we'll just set aside for the moment, right over here in a lovely spot where we put things when we're really not in the place to talk about them yet, the entire discussion about the artistic merit of this idea. Instead, I want to talk about what must occur when this ice, as ice is wont to do, begins to melt.
I have never seen a house completely encased in many inches of ice before. Assuming a number of things I have no right to assume (the house is unheated; no preparation was done to the house to preserve it from whatever might happen, the structure is strong enough to bear this weight for this period of time -- because somewhere it is cold enough to instantly freeze several inches of water into ice on a structure is likely to remain cold for a good long while yet) I think some significant damage might occur, perhaps tantamount to being submerged under water for a given amount of time; moisture intrusion, etc.
Because, unaided, ice does not melt only from the top, I think. It begins to melt underneath, too; and that water has to go somewhere. Now assuming that not all the ice will melt at the same rate and yet gravity still will work, this means all the ice is going to go down the walls and pool around the foundation.
This is NOT a small amount of water here. This house is going to be significantly damaged if not already wrecked. Mind you, it may have been wrecked before the ice went on it. I don't know.
It'd be an awesome place to hide a body, that's what I'm thinking. If I knew an artist was going to do this project, and I needed evidence to disappear for a while and still be discovered later, to further my nefarious plot, that would be as good a place as any to put it. Probably, although I have no reason that this should be true, would present some unique challenges to forensic investigators. Because decay rate would be slower -- but you'd know when the body went into the ice, so you'd have an approximate date that you couldn't start after. Mind you, then, you'd have to present a body in the iced in house that was dead LESS time than the house was iced up and how would you do that? One could gain some sort of access with a basement door (perhaps forgotten: perhaps lost behind some unfortunate landcaping/snow and a sawzall that brings you up into the house, bringing you evidence behind you. What would stop the cops from discovering this is how you did this? Hmm. If the house was wrecked enough, and you knew it well enough that you could really disguise entrance -- ie in my house, you could cut a hole from the basement that brings you up into a narrow space under the stairs or inside a kitchen cupboard, perhaps it would escape notice for a while.
And now you just need characters. Who's the artist? Who's the body? Who's the killer, and what's the relationship between them and the artist? Was this just a place to hide a body or was it an attempt to frame the artist for a crime? All art is political; is this murder? Who investigates this? How do they feel about it? All literary detectives are frustrated something elses; do we have here a woman who dreamed of a life crafting elegant ice swans for high society weddings caught up instead in homicide investigation? And she must have a love interest (or he must, if she's a he) and where will that come from? Perhaps the body -- was she once young and light and bright and dancing in a cage at a club where our investigator, ever aware of their position looked but never touched, always wanting but fearful of engagement? Perhaps something else entirely. We'll see. The larger question is when would I have the time to write this, and that one I know the answer to: not today, not today! Taunting magpie reality, and I'm late to the desk.
This? This is why you shouldn't ask "What are you thinking right now?" unless you REALLY want the answer. *grin*
ETA: In order to get this house, the artists paid for and donated another foreclosed house to a homeless family in Detroit! All other musings aside here, that is a wonderful and amazing thing to do: http://icehousedetroit.blogspot.com/2009/11/i-have-just-returned-from-detroit-and-i.html my hats off to these guys. |
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| Today, I Must Be Amazing |
[Feb. 2nd, 2010|08:02 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | determined | ] |
A few moments ago, just before the children went off on the bus, I answered a poll wordweaverlynn has going about what do I want most? And I said "Safety and security for my family first, and after that many things" (roughly, today we are grateful I remember THAT much!)
And as I was traipsing around getting things done for the morning, it hit me that if safety and security were TRULY what I valued most, I'd live my life entirely differently. What I do is not really rooted in the safety and security of it all -- I've created a system in which I must pull off miracle after miracle after miracle. (You understand, of course, that there is some issue of scale here. Not all miracles appear as such to those not involved in their generation.) And I do this all with a side order of issues that reduce if not eliminate the thought of a safety net; with my children balanced on my shoulders and a great fear of falling.
What an addiction. I say this to you as a drunk, as someone who's done far too many drugs, who knows full well the nameless rush of all the wrong love: nothing gives you a greater rush, nothing dumps you on your ass harder and colder and more often than this glorious, horrible cycle I've put myself on.
Addiction is when you know that you're not necessarily making the best choices in the world, but you do it anyway, because there is no question of not doing it.
Let us call things by their proper names, this morning, at least, when the sky is gray yet my heart light; let us not dissemble and drape this all in fancy language; let us, let me, not fool myself this morning, of all mornings, for this is the morning I have, about who I am. I am a miracle addict, and I am raising a pair of the same. And yes, there's guilt there, and could-would-should thoughts about safe jobs in factories and offices; both of which I've had, both of which I've failed at. Because in my heart, in my brain, in the core of who I am, I will screw up even the most stable of positions for the chance to say "Here is my pen. Here is my paper. With this, I will make my fortune."
A dear friend once told me that all writing is driven by ego, and at the time I thought, "Well, duh, yeah, but I'm not that egotistic. I've got my head screwed on straight. I'm not a glory hound. I'm just me."
Yeah. Whoops. Ego drives in many ways, including that small secret rush of terror: there is SO much to do, they're counting on you, there is a place in the Universe waiting for your words. Your words. Little old you, unremarkable you, you who wouldn't get a second glance at the second glance shop. Ego is a tricky bastard; there is much to learn there.
My beloved TRants has taught me much about Buddhism, and so much of it resonates, until the part (which is rather problematic) where we have to separate ourselves from desire, from ambition, from that ego-driven core. And yes, I know that's rather the point. But on one hand, we have enlightenment. On the other, we have Today, I Must Be Amazing.
It would be a lie to say I want the former more than the latter. So I would revise my poll answer, I think. What do I want? I want what any addict wants: I want my next hit. I want the game to keep going. I want to be Amazing. I want big miracles and small miracles and Holy Shit I Can't Believe I Did That...knowing full well that I won't believe it when I do it, that I de-value any accomplishment as soon as I pull it off, that this hunger will forever be here for the Next Thing. Inherent in these miracles I want my girls to be safe and secure; I want them to never worry. Reconciling that will be quite a trick; perhaps the largest miracle.
Today, I must be amazing. The rest will follow. |
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| Rise and Shine |
[Feb. 1st, 2010|08:03 am] |
I am not unlike a badger this morning; come to me bearing gifts and I will still snarl at you and bite. It is my nature, and a testament to both nature and the resilience of children that we have a morning routine for moods like this, where we get up and dressed and fed and out with almost military precision; autonomy springs up unexpected and I get to see Harmony's problem solving skills front and center --
Mood? Mood's a thing for music and making love; not for fighting. Not for parenting, either, I'd hazard, although who wants to take bets on how much of that fell on Bev's shoulders?
Come with me, come with me, but don't complain if you don't like the destination once we get there. You want consistency, buy paint; you want logic, you should make god damn sure of that, for logic is naught but cold comfort; the results might suck but they have the solidity of inevitability about them.
Today I am tense; it's one of those magical days where the financial alchemy all has to work right; late receivables to cover late utilities; today's billing more than enough to stop today's shut offs, but is there time? Is there time? And I'm out of give a damn, frankly: you bump into crisis enough it stops being a crisis and is instead just a friend who's aggravating and omnipresent and rather smelly and you can't remember exactly when you were introduced, but she's ever been part of your life, and you can't kill her, for that bitch is made of cast-iron, sheathed over with whatever they use to keep Tammy Faye's face on.
I say that and feel bad instantly, for she might be dead, and you shouldn't be catty about people who are actually tougher than you are and Tammy, love her or loathe her, has a barnacle tenacity that I would myself, were I a more covetous creature.
Today we talked about what we'd be wearing to an upcoming funeral and I wonder when this happened, when anticipatory grief became just something else to make sure there's clean socks for. All that remains now is the specifics; death has its own time and it will not be hurried one fraction of a second nor delayed an instant. It reminds me of fresh babies; no regard for the rules of sensibility and society; at the end and at the beginning we are biology and demanding need.
I watched the Grammys, as, apparently, did Harmony, although she fell asleep during the Haiti fundraiser, where her name escapes me, but what was she thinking? The moment was wrong, all off, and all I can remember of her performance is seeing this knowledge in her eyes and thinking how remarkable, that her discomfort can make it up into space and ricochet a bit around a satellite and beam back down and come into the small, dark, vaguely square confines of my living room and make itself known to me. As always, the ceremonies proved to me my complete irrelevancy to popular culture; and vice versa, with a side of Pink is transcendently beautiful.
There was a double murder in Dannemora, and noble creature I said, "Thank God it is not here, for now I don't have to write about it." Already I've gotten the emails asking if I will be doing a book about it -- a CO kills another man for the love of a woman, if the rumors are right. And I've a book where a CO kills another CO for the love of a woman, but it's not this tale; my crimes recorded are fictional. I may ghost books, I may write porn for money, but true crime writing? I have my standards; there are some jobs too tawdry for me to do them.
And ten minutes gone, and I'm not sure if I should be glad of that or mourn it. Now, ironically (HA FREAKING HA) I shall go and create the latest issue of a humor magazine. Which is about par for the course in the world of comedy. The only thing I'm missing is a substance abuse problem to get me started, and that's only because we've been long out of whiskey here. |
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| The nicest words I've heard today |
[Jan. 29th, 2010|04:08 pm] |
"How clueless do you have to be?"
Trust me, it's all in the delivery, but it did make me smile. Quite a bit.
Now I'm going to go sit down with my notebook and write some post-apocalyptic prose. I'm torn, a bit, because some of it echoes something I read in an anthology many months ago, but I think only I will see the resemblance. And that story ended with a strong commentary on maternal love and the distance we go for family, whereas this tale (a - has a theme -- holy shit!) focuses on the fact that sometimes achieving the greater good means doing something really rather shitty, but you do it anyway. And no one's related to anyone, save the loose bonds of biology that bind us all.
I know. Shocking sentiment from me. But I'm really rather tickled to have a tale that has no sex in it whatsoever, really doesn't 'fit' my current ouvre (I have an ouvre! I keep it in my ouvre warmer on these cold days) and really lets me stretch the language.
It will probably suck. But I will be a better writer for having written it. |
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