Monday, February 21, 2005
I heard the news of Hunter S. Thompson's death from Oneirophrenia last night. I know this winter is no more filled with death than any other during my life has been, but I have to admit that it's felt like it. And we all keep moving, regardless.
Oh, and Sandra Dee died, also.
Yesterday was more productive than the day before. I did 840 words on Chapter Three, and at least 550 of them are worth hanging onto. The rest likely needs reworking. I may have to spend today doing research before I can proceed.
We read more of Skin last night. There is so much brilliance in this book, I'd forgotten; no wonder it mesmerized me so when I first read in in 1993.
After making my entry yesterday, I realized that there's one bit of genital slang that doesn't rub me the wrong way (so to speak) — cock. It just works, the way all the others just don't. It's somehow appropriately abrupt, blunt, solid, and doesn't strike me as something that seems to have been designed to intentionally provoke disgust or laughter. It has a nice glottal quality. Anyway, one thing I need to do today is pick through Slang and Euphemism: A Dictionary of Oathes, Curses, Insults, Ethnic Slurs, Sexual Slang and Metaphors, Drug Talk, College Lingo, and Related Matters by Richard A. Spears (2nd revised ed.; Signet, 1991) in an effort to locate a few more euphonic words. Of course, obviously, one could write stories wherein the more atrocious words are the ones that must be used, the only ones suited — I've certainly done it enough times myself. But I'm trying to build a certain language for this book. Bill Schafer (Subterranean Press) asked yesterday if he could read the first piece, and I told him no, because it isn't that finished. There's still more polishing to be done.
12:24 PM
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