"She pictures the broken glass, she pictures the steam."
The sun and light filtered through leaves just outside my office window. Air that smells like summer. Clouds in the distance, visible between rooftops. Within arm's reach, but feeling a million miles away. Actual reality, AR. Most days, it seems less than actual.
It's better to try something difficult and flop than to play it safe all the time. ~ Katharine Hepburn
And this stone around my chest.
It's not for lack of sleep. The insomnia has only been an occasional visitor the last few months. I'm averaging 7-8 hours a night, which, for me, is amazing. I need pills to do it, but I'm doing it.
These days, we all take pills to sleep. These days, we all take pills. Without our pills, we have no awareness of our place in the grander scheme of things.
Here's a line I have to remember to slip into The Book somewhere, today or tomorrow or two days back: "The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower, suitable to any occasion..." And speaking of The Book, aka Fay Grimmer ~
You see? They have to bludgeon a man into obscurity before they'll acknowledge his genius.
~ well, I fear it's coming not only far, far too slowly (that is a simple fact, dates and deadlines and simple math), but that it will prove a [TRIGGER WARNING] breach birth [It's okay, little girl; you can look now.]. Which is bad enough, painful and all. But, what's far worse than missing deadlines (and the ensuing ripple, domino, butterfly effect, which means missing future deadlines, and they use the word "dead" for a reason), what's far worse than that, is realizing that The Book isn't what was intended. And it might be you're one of those people who think an artist's intentions are irrelevant, but I Am Not. Intent is paramount.
It's a joke. It started as a joke. But, what if the joke shows me the way back into genuine urban fantasy, before the label was stolen by ParaRom and branded with tramp-stamp covers? I wrote a rather amusing scene yesterday in the throne room of the Glaistig, one of my post-apocalyptic Fairie's royal poobahs, and it basically felt like decent fantasy, not like decent fantasy making fun of badly written fantasy. The first half of Blood Oranges, well, it's obviously me punching "ParaRom" to a bloody pulp (see, funny). But this? Well...our heroine is still only mock plucky, is still on beyond ill-mannered, and makes no bones about being a bloodthirsty monster. There's still not one drop of "romance" anywhere in The Book. Oh, wait. There was. But then I mercilessly inverted it and stomped it flat. Damn...I've lost my train of thought.
At least there are lesbian and transgender fairies. But, then, there always were. Oh, and so far this or that permutation of the word "fuck" has only been used ~500 times in 12,000+ words of manuscript. I rock.
By the way, if these three books make me rich (ha, ha, and ha), after Puppy Love there will be an unnecessary fourth novel, ghost written and titled Hot Pussy. In which the Malaysian jadi-jadian shapeshifting folk tradition is touched upon, and our werepire falls for a harimau radian. Then @Requires Hate can feel especially vindicated when she hashtags me "racefail" and "cultural appropriation." Though, "cultural appropriation." might be too long for a hashtag. Well, fret not. I'm sure she'll find a way.
Oh, I wrote only 1,082 words yesterday. Blame this stone tied around my chest.
God Hates Kittens (And You, Too),
Aunt Beast
It's better to try something difficult and flop than to play it safe all the time. ~ Katharine Hepburn
And this stone around my chest.
It's not for lack of sleep. The insomnia has only been an occasional visitor the last few months. I'm averaging 7-8 hours a night, which, for me, is amazing. I need pills to do it, but I'm doing it.
These days, we all take pills to sleep. These days, we all take pills. Without our pills, we have no awareness of our place in the grander scheme of things.
Here's a line I have to remember to slip into The Book somewhere, today or tomorrow or two days back: "The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower, suitable to any occasion..." And speaking of The Book, aka Fay Grimmer ~
You see? They have to bludgeon a man into obscurity before they'll acknowledge his genius.
~ well, I fear it's coming not only far, far too slowly (that is a simple fact, dates and deadlines and simple math), but that it will prove a [TRIGGER WARNING] breach birth [It's okay, little girl; you can look now.]. Which is bad enough, painful and all. But, what's far worse than missing deadlines (and the ensuing ripple, domino, butterfly effect, which means missing future deadlines, and they use the word "dead" for a reason), what's far worse than that, is realizing that The Book isn't what was intended. And it might be you're one of those people who think an artist's intentions are irrelevant, but I Am Not. Intent is paramount.
It's a joke. It started as a joke. But, what if the joke shows me the way back into genuine urban fantasy, before the label was stolen by ParaRom and branded with tramp-stamp covers? I wrote a rather amusing scene yesterday in the throne room of the Glaistig, one of my post-apocalyptic Fairie's royal poobahs, and it basically felt like decent fantasy, not like decent fantasy making fun of badly written fantasy. The first half of Blood Oranges, well, it's obviously me punching "ParaRom" to a bloody pulp (see, funny). But this? Well...our heroine is still only mock plucky, is still on beyond ill-mannered, and makes no bones about being a bloodthirsty monster. There's still not one drop of "romance" anywhere in The Book. Oh, wait. There was. But then I mercilessly inverted it and stomped it flat. Damn...I've lost my train of thought.
At least there are lesbian and transgender fairies. But, then, there always were. Oh, and so far this or that permutation of the word "fuck" has only been used ~500 times in 12,000+ words of manuscript. I rock.
By the way, if these three books make me rich (ha, ha, and ha), after Puppy Love there will be an unnecessary fourth novel, ghost written and titled Hot Pussy. In which the Malaysian jadi-jadian shapeshifting folk tradition is touched upon, and our werepire falls for a harimau radian. Then @Requires Hate can feel especially vindicated when she hashtags me "racefail" and "cultural appropriation." Though, "cultural appropriation." might be too long for a hashtag. Well, fret not. I'm sure she'll find a way.
Oh, I wrote only 1,082 words yesterday. Blame this stone tied around my chest.
God Hates Kittens (And You, Too),
Aunt Beast