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greygirlbeastYesterday, I did 1,282 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, which brought me to the end of the second section of the story, "The Survivor." I'm actually considering placing a sort of disclaimer at the front of this book, something like this —
WARNING! This is strictly a work of fiction, and therefore should be regarded as fantasy, not an attempt to forecast some possible human future. The events in this novel are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to any actual future is purely coincidental. It was the sole intent of the author to write a story, a "ripping good space yarn," something fun and thoughtful and exciting about highly evolved dinosaurs inhabiting volcanic caverns on Mars — not to play Nostradamus. Take note: the author could not care less about mankind's future. If this is not the sort of book you're looking for, then you should stop NOW while there's still time. No, really. Oh, and all that stuff you've heard about "the Singularity" and ">H," that particular fantasy will not be found anywhere herein. Apologies. — CRK
Or maybe it'll just say something to the effect that I'm intentionally writing a novella that would be perfectly at home in the pages of a mid-20th Century pulp magazine. Let the critics sit and spin and write their own gorramn books. Thank you, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Thank you, Ray Bradbury.
The baby robins in the holly bush below the kitchen window fledged yesterday. There was a bit of a kerfuffle when a male cardinal tried to move in before the last robin chick was out. Spooky snagged a photo (behind the cut):
A very good walk through Freedom Park just after nightfall. There were lots of bats. Back home, my Second Life was occupied largely with real-estate speculation in New Babbage, as I'm looking to buy a couple of parcels of land so that I can begin building Hawkins' Palaeozoic Museum. I am envisioning a great glass and steel structure, not unlike the Crystal Palace. The second parcel will, I hope, become Jules Verne Park, because even Babbage needs green space. Sir Arthur and his accountant, Mr. Swindlehurst, showed me some of the ins and outs of owning land in SL. Now, I just have to find the right lots and get my virtual finances in order. Oh, and for them what might care, here's the link to Professor Nareth E. Nishi's journal, the writing of which is becoming another minor obsession of mine.
Late, we watched another episode of Firefly ("Shindig"). Then, of course, it was time for my nightly dance with Monsieur Insomnia. He had me up until about 4:30 a.m. But, in the end, two Ambien (20 mg) bought me six and a half hours sleep. Boy howdy.
Platypus says it's time to go. I am helpless to resist.
WARNING! This is strictly a work of fiction, and therefore should be regarded as fantasy, not an attempt to forecast some possible human future. The events in this novel are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to any actual future is purely coincidental. It was the sole intent of the author to write a story, a "ripping good space yarn," something fun and thoughtful and exciting about highly evolved dinosaurs inhabiting volcanic caverns on Mars — not to play Nostradamus. Take note: the author could not care less about mankind's future. If this is not the sort of book you're looking for, then you should stop NOW while there's still time. No, really. Oh, and all that stuff you've heard about "the Singularity" and ">H," that particular fantasy will not be found anywhere herein. Apologies. — CRK
Or maybe it'll just say something to the effect that I'm intentionally writing a novella that would be perfectly at home in the pages of a mid-20th Century pulp magazine. Let the critics sit and spin and write their own gorramn books. Thank you, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Thank you, Ray Bradbury.
The baby robins in the holly bush below the kitchen window fledged yesterday. There was a bit of a kerfuffle when a male cardinal tried to move in before the last robin chick was out. Spooky snagged a photo (behind the cut):
A very good walk through Freedom Park just after nightfall. There were lots of bats. Back home, my Second Life was occupied largely with real-estate speculation in New Babbage, as I'm looking to buy a couple of parcels of land so that I can begin building Hawkins' Palaeozoic Museum. I am envisioning a great glass and steel structure, not unlike the Crystal Palace. The second parcel will, I hope, become Jules Verne Park, because even Babbage needs green space. Sir Arthur and his accountant, Mr. Swindlehurst, showed me some of the ins and outs of owning land in SL. Now, I just have to find the right lots and get my virtual finances in order. Oh, and for them what might care, here's the link to Professor Nareth E. Nishi's journal, the writing of which is becoming another minor obsession of mine.
Late, we watched another episode of Firefly ("Shindig"). Then, of course, it was time for my nightly dance with Monsieur Insomnia. He had me up until about 4:30 a.m. But, in the end, two Ambien (20 mg) bought me six and a half hours sleep. Boy howdy.
Platypus says it's time to go. I am helpless to resist.
