Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Spooky is no end of consternated by the Southern turn of phrase, "do what?" (or, if you want to get fancy, "do what now?"). For some reason, this amuses me mightily. I've actually started using "do what?" just to annoy her. And I realized that no one in my novels or short fiction has ever said "Do what?" Which is a real shame, since it's certainly the sort of thing Deacon would say.
No news to report on "The Daughter of the Four of Pentacles." Except that I spent a little time on Monday revising what I'd written on Friday. The Other Me has been running rampant, sulking, howling, swinging from chandeliers, declaring her blazing hatred for all humanity. The Dutiful Me got fed up with the spectacle and stomped off in a huff. It's all about the bitterness, this recent ascension of The Other Me. I'll either get over it, or I won't. Today, I have to try to make it through at least a thousand words, before this thing spins completely out of control. I have to write two short stories this month. There's not time for slackery.
Brian Henson has a sort of thank-you message up at Farscape.com. Little victories, right? You bet your frelling mivonks.
This morning, I want to be like Doc in Steinbeck's Cannery Row and Sweet Thursday. I want to live in the abandoned remains of a once prosperous fishing village and make my living catching sea creatures for biological supply companies. On ambitious days, I might dream of writing monographs. But mostly I'd drink beer and talk to beach bums and the women of ill repute over at the Bear Flag. Of course, these days, Cannery Row is a prefab attraction for tourists, complete with one of those abominable Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. affairs, but I can dream...
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