I'm going to make pulled pork tomorrow. The apartment's gonna smell so good.
Today I had one of those moments where I thought, "self, you should not be driving," except I already was. So I took several breaks along the way, turning what is normally an hour or so out of the house into a nearly four hour trek. I can't say that I resent any of it, though. I found a cute little bakery and a cinema that looks like it's trying to be the Alamo Drafthouse and a state historic site and a weird coffee shop and a yard sale with tomato plants (???) and an Italian restaurant tucked back in the trees that I'd like to try out someday and had a lovely conversation with a senior in the drinks aisle at the grocery store and stopped to listen to the church bells downtown ring out at noon.
The only disappointing thing I found (out) today is that the milkshake machine at my local McDonalds is broken.
--
I have one of the spnhorrorbang stories drafted out. Every time I go back and look at it, I add a couple more words, so it's casually grown from just over 3k to just over 4k. (One of these days I'm going to stop overusing the word 'just.' Possibly. Putting a story into a word-map generator is a fucking lifesaver sometimes.) I think it's maybe more implied future horror? but I like it. I like the ending most.
I keep thinking about parts of Men Enough... and Bloodlines and how reading those bits even now still makes me go, "hey, maybe you can do this horror thing" and realising that the reason I like them so much, I think, is how sparse and to-the-point they are? Like the fear and bleakness comes through because there's so much empty space between the words and emptiness can be, in itself, terrifying.
I need to re-learn how to write like that -- I am good (from time-to-time) at dark and lush and gilt and heavy fabrics and leather-bound books but absolutely dreadful at minimal and white carpet and glass and steel. I need to do more stylistic exercises, I guess -- though I will never ever ever want to write like Hemingway.
(I also need to work on my overuse of semicolons. I just really like them, okay?
The only disappointing thing I found (out) today is that the milkshake machine at my local McDonalds is broken.
--
I have one of the spnhorrorbang stories drafted out. Every time I go back and look at it, I add a couple more words, so it's casually grown from just over 3k to just over 4k. (One of these days I'm going to stop overusing the word 'just.' Possibly. Putting a story into a word-map generator is a fucking lifesaver sometimes.) I think it's maybe more implied future horror? but I like it. I like the ending most.
I keep thinking about parts of Men Enough... and Bloodlines and how reading those bits even now still makes me go, "hey, maybe you can do this horror thing" and realising that the reason I like them so much, I think, is how sparse and to-the-point they are? Like the fear and bleakness comes through because there's so much empty space between the words and emptiness can be, in itself, terrifying.
I need to re-learn how to write like that -- I am good (from time-to-time) at dark and lush and gilt and heavy fabrics and leather-bound books but absolutely dreadful at minimal and white carpet and glass and steel. I need to do more stylistic exercises, I guess -- though I will never ever ever want to write like Hemingway.
(I also need to work on my overuse of semicolons. I just really like them, okay?