"Borrowed never earned, in debt from birth."
Spooky just told me that Rift is going free-to-play. So, there goes one of the last bastions. The floodgates will open, and the children will pour in. I mean, it's bad enough now, without the twits who are just coming to grief and treat the game like a giant chatroom.
"I expect to never have general chat on after this takes effect," said Spooky just now.
Over breakfast, it occurred to me...well, here's what I said: "I don't like comics, but I write comics. I hate gaming, and I game. I hate the cold, but I moved to New England." That says a lot about me, actually. I miss the days when my masochistic needs were met at the end of a whip.
Yesterday I wrote pages two, three, and four of Chapter Eleven of Alabaster: Boxcar Tales (1,532 words). Today, I think I have to tear page three out and come up with a different approach. Probably. I've been going for a Reflecting Skin sort of tone in this last arc, and Page Three ruins it. Worse part, to stay on schedule - and the publishing schedule for Dark Horse Presents is tight - I should have finished #11 yesterday. I needed to write the final three issues in six days. Already, that's expanded to a minimum of... oh, fuck it. Fuck the numbers, and fuck the deadlines. When it's finished it will be finished, and if that's too late, that's too late.
For a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself.
Phew. For a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself. ~ Radiohead.
Though, definitely more than a single minute. Anyway, a lot of yesterday was also talking with Jared at Centipede Press as we continue to work out the design of the CP edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. Micahel Zulli was already Phillip George Saltonstall, and now Matthew Jaffe will be Albert Perrault. This is the Jaffe painting that sold me. Also, it was decided that I'm going to delay the CP edition of The Red Tree (because I need much more time with it), so in-between their editions of the novels Centipede Press will be releasing the collection of my "Mythos" (id est, HPL) stories, a project I think I mentioned here a while back.
The contracts for the Polish edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir arrived yesterday. Oh, and this author's profile thingy went up at Nightmare Magazine, in which I talk about Steinbeck, R.E.M, and beginnings. Go. Read. Leave comments.
And this, from Amazon's page which is presumably devoted to selling The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, not providing the marginally literate a public soapbox from which to wail their confusion:
I had an open mind when I started reading it, and I was expecting something pretty interesting because of the reviews on the covers. The story started out interesting, but then in the middle and end the plot line became more about just one character, her name would pop up everywhere. It was boring and kind of annoying when the author worked the reader up to feel excited about the plot but it turned out to be kind of a flop. It is also kind of uncomfortable to read because the narrator is "crazy" and she gets rather annoying. Sorry if I offend anyone.
Um...yeah. Those damned, annoying schizophrenics.
The apology was, I admit, curiously novel. Though I long ago learned to stop apologizing for being offensive. Apologizing takes all the fun out of it.
Unapologetic,
La Cabrita (a.k.a. Aunt Beast)
"I expect to never have general chat on after this takes effect," said Spooky just now.
Over breakfast, it occurred to me...well, here's what I said: "I don't like comics, but I write comics. I hate gaming, and I game. I hate the cold, but I moved to New England." That says a lot about me, actually. I miss the days when my masochistic needs were met at the end of a whip.
Yesterday I wrote pages two, three, and four of Chapter Eleven of Alabaster: Boxcar Tales (1,532 words). Today, I think I have to tear page three out and come up with a different approach. Probably. I've been going for a Reflecting Skin sort of tone in this last arc, and Page Three ruins it. Worse part, to stay on schedule - and the publishing schedule for Dark Horse Presents is tight - I should have finished #11 yesterday. I needed to write the final three issues in six days. Already, that's expanded to a minimum of... oh, fuck it. Fuck the numbers, and fuck the deadlines. When it's finished it will be finished, and if that's too late, that's too late.
For a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself.
Phew. For a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself. ~ Radiohead.
Though, definitely more than a single minute. Anyway, a lot of yesterday was also talking with Jared at Centipede Press as we continue to work out the design of the CP edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. Micahel Zulli was already Phillip George Saltonstall, and now Matthew Jaffe will be Albert Perrault. This is the Jaffe painting that sold me. Also, it was decided that I'm going to delay the CP edition of The Red Tree (because I need much more time with it), so in-between their editions of the novels Centipede Press will be releasing the collection of my "Mythos" (id est, HPL) stories, a project I think I mentioned here a while back.
The contracts for the Polish edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir arrived yesterday. Oh, and this author's profile thingy went up at Nightmare Magazine, in which I talk about Steinbeck, R.E.M, and beginnings. Go. Read. Leave comments.
And this, from Amazon's page which is presumably devoted to selling The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, not providing the marginally literate a public soapbox from which to wail their confusion:
I had an open mind when I started reading it, and I was expecting something pretty interesting because of the reviews on the covers. The story started out interesting, but then in the middle and end the plot line became more about just one character, her name would pop up everywhere. It was boring and kind of annoying when the author worked the reader up to feel excited about the plot but it turned out to be kind of a flop. It is also kind of uncomfortable to read because the narrator is "crazy" and she gets rather annoying. Sorry if I offend anyone.
Um...yeah. Those damned, annoying schizophrenics.
The apology was, I admit, curiously novel. Though I long ago learned to stop apologizing for being offensive. Apologizing takes all the fun out of it.
Unapologetic,
La Cabrita (a.k.a. Aunt Beast)