"And your prejudice won't keep you warm tonight."
Detox Day 5, and at some point this is supposed to get easier, but I have clearly not arrived anywhere near that point. I'm through physical withdrawal, for the most part, but, truthfully, this thing on the other side is far, far worse.
Sunny and a wide carnivorous sky. Currently, it's 77˚F, 50% humidity.
Yesterday, I did 1,255 words on the Still Untitled Mars Novella (SUMN), and I think it was going fairly well until the final two or three paragraphs, when everything collapsed into an infodump thinly disguised as conversation. One reason so little science fiction works for me is that too many authors of science fiction are in love with data. But the truth is, data is my enemy. Data chokes prose. It smothers good writing. It's the reason we have encyclopedias and textbooks, not the reason we have novels and novellas and short stories. When I'm writing science fiction, the trick is revealing as little as possible, nothing more than absolutely necessary. So, today will begin by fixing the mess I made yesterday.
I haven't looked at the news in two days. I no longer see the point.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thank you.
Has anyone else ever noticed that Wall of Voodoo's "Mexican Radio" and the Smith's "What Difference Does It Make?" are almost the same songs?
Also, today is the 78th anniversary of the Great New England Hurricane of 1938.
Last night, I finally got to see Frank Pavich's 2013 documentary on that most famous of unmade films, Jodorowsky's Dune. What a brilliant, beautiful thing might have been. Imagine David Carradine as Duke Leto Atreides, Mick Jagger as Feyd Rautha, Orson Welles as Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, and Salvador Dali as Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, with a soundtrack by Pink Floyd, brought to life by artists like H.R. Giger, Chris Foss, and Jean "Möebius" Giraud. It would have been glorious.
Time to make the doughnuts.
Later,
Aunt Beast
Sunny and a wide carnivorous sky. Currently, it's 77˚F, 50% humidity.
Yesterday, I did 1,255 words on the Still Untitled Mars Novella (SUMN), and I think it was going fairly well until the final two or three paragraphs, when everything collapsed into an infodump thinly disguised as conversation. One reason so little science fiction works for me is that too many authors of science fiction are in love with data. But the truth is, data is my enemy. Data chokes prose. It smothers good writing. It's the reason we have encyclopedias and textbooks, not the reason we have novels and novellas and short stories. When I'm writing science fiction, the trick is revealing as little as possible, nothing more than absolutely necessary. So, today will begin by fixing the mess I made yesterday.
I haven't looked at the news in two days. I no longer see the point.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thank you.
Has anyone else ever noticed that Wall of Voodoo's "Mexican Radio" and the Smith's "What Difference Does It Make?" are almost the same songs?
Also, today is the 78th anniversary of the Great New England Hurricane of 1938.
Last night, I finally got to see Frank Pavich's 2013 documentary on that most famous of unmade films, Jodorowsky's Dune. What a brilliant, beautiful thing might have been. Imagine David Carradine as Duke Leto Atreides, Mick Jagger as Feyd Rautha, Orson Welles as Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, and Salvador Dali as Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, with a soundtrack by Pink Floyd, brought to life by artists like H.R. Giger, Chris Foss, and Jean "Möebius" Giraud. It would have been glorious.
Time to make the doughnuts.
Later,
Aunt Beast