Wednesday, January 15, 2003
It's miserably cold here in Atlanta. A front came through last night and the temperatures plummeted. At 11:12 a.m., we've only reached 31F. Of course, those of you reading this from North Dakota or Maine or Moscow will have little sympathy. As usual, it's January and I'm ready for June.
Another good writing day yesterday. I did about 1,300 words on Chapter Three of Murder of Angels. It's starting to feel like I'm building steam, which is good, after running on empty the last couple of months. The chainsaw is in the air, even if the kitten is sitting on the ground. Yesterday, I wound up writing to VNV Nation's Futureperfect (always a reliable fallback). I'm beginning to see the sort of novel that MOA will be. More like Silk, in that much of the story's conflict, much of the opposing Other, originates from the psyche of the characters, moreso than in Threshold or Low Red Moon. This is, in part, a novel about insanity, and the struggle against insanity, and the ultimately arbitrary nature of what I think of as "consensual reality." On the other hand, it will have a great deal of the alienness, the weirdness, the elsewhere-pressing-in-on-this-worldness that Threshold had (and Low Red Moon, to as lesser degree). There's a ghost story in it, if you want to see it that way. Also, I've been at William Blake again, and I expect it will show.
This buisness with Pete Townsend is even more absurd than the witch hunt currently going on within the Roman Catholic Church. For shit's sake, the man apparently looked at websites, was arrested for it, and now has to justify himself to the entire world. CNN is suggesting that he may, ultimately, be remembered not for The Who or Tommy, but for a sex scandal. It occurred to me last night that in the future everyone will be a criminal for at least fifteen minutes. In which case, the future's almost here.
The past just keeps looking more inviting.
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