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greygirlbeastI think, while I slept, very small pixies came and glued my eyelids shut. That's the most parsimonious, rational explanation I can come up with at the moment.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,131 words on "The Collier's Venus (1893)," which I am just now, finally, beginning to think might work after all. But I likely will not finish it today. There's still too much before THE END arrives. I might find THE END tomorrow.
If you have not already pre-ordered A is for Alien, I urge you to do so today. Thanks. While you're at it, if you haven't already, snag a copy of Daughter of Hounds. You'll find it inherently superior to anything from the "pen" of Stephenie Meyer because a) my vampires do not sparkle and b) I can actually, you know, write.
Gods. We watched the South Park riff on Twilight late last night, "The Ungroundable," and my sides still hurt. You can watch the whole episode free at the South Park Studios website. The best bit is when the goth kids burn down the local Hot Topic (formerly a Banana Republic) to stop the proliferation of popular "vampire" kids. Priceless. Of course, I've been advocating the overthrow of Hot Topic since about 1996. I think I'm going to call my agent today and pitch a Meyeresque YA series...about zombies. Sparkling zombies. I'll write it in the worst, most artless excuse for English I can manage, and title it Rot. I think the time has come.
You know I've never been much for the vox populi, but I am pleased to see that the best Twlight can manage at imdb is a 5.3, and that Roger Ebert gave it a 2.5, and that the Tomatometer at Rotten Tomatoes is scoring it at 44%. Of course, I'm sure it's still raking in the moolah, hand over fist.
The new issue of Weird Tales came yesterday. It was damn cold. The weather, not Weird Tales. I played a bit of WoW. I spent far, far too much time tweaking my Facebook account. Talk about insidious. This is the phenomenon of time displacement at its worst. And yet, there I am, taking part. Why? Am I really so afraid of "downtime?" Am I really that terrified of being alone with my own thoughts? Apparently so.
Okay, kiddos. The platypus says the time has come, and the doughnuts aren't going to make themselves.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,131 words on "The Collier's Venus (1893)," which I am just now, finally, beginning to think might work after all. But I likely will not finish it today. There's still too much before THE END arrives. I might find THE END tomorrow.
If you have not already pre-ordered A is for Alien, I urge you to do so today. Thanks. While you're at it, if you haven't already, snag a copy of Daughter of Hounds. You'll find it inherently superior to anything from the "pen" of Stephenie Meyer because a) my vampires do not sparkle and b) I can actually, you know, write.
Gods. We watched the South Park riff on Twilight late last night, "The Ungroundable," and my sides still hurt. You can watch the whole episode free at the South Park Studios website. The best bit is when the goth kids burn down the local Hot Topic (formerly a Banana Republic) to stop the proliferation of popular "vampire" kids. Priceless. Of course, I've been advocating the overthrow of Hot Topic since about 1996. I think I'm going to call my agent today and pitch a Meyeresque YA series...about zombies. Sparkling zombies. I'll write it in the worst, most artless excuse for English I can manage, and title it Rot. I think the time has come.
You know I've never been much for the vox populi, but I am pleased to see that the best Twlight can manage at imdb is a 5.3, and that Roger Ebert gave it a 2.5, and that the Tomatometer at Rotten Tomatoes is scoring it at 44%. Of course, I'm sure it's still raking in the moolah, hand over fist.
The new issue of Weird Tales came yesterday. It was damn cold. The weather, not Weird Tales. I played a bit of WoW. I spent far, far too much time tweaking my Facebook account. Talk about insidious. This is the phenomenon of time displacement at its worst. And yet, there I am, taking part. Why? Am I really so afraid of "downtime?" Am I really that terrified of being alone with my own thoughts? Apparently so.
Okay, kiddos. The platypus says the time has come, and the doughnuts aren't going to make themselves.
