Monday, September 30, 2002

D'you want angst with that?

People occasionally ask me why, if I'm this git'ard chaos magickan and all, my life is still arguably bitchaboutable (with sucktastic interludes). They suggest that if I really want to improve my lot I should git my 'ard on and sort it out, or admit that the whole magick thing is a flatulent bubble of methane gurgling up from the delusional mulch at the bottom of my brain. Why, if I can in theory get anything I want (within certain ill-defined boundaries), how come I've not got it yet?

Because unless I force myself to sit down and think really really hard about it, I don't rightly know what I'm after. See, my ideal, totally unrealistic, dream-on way of making a living wolud be to write sf/f/h&det/mys about prehistoric mammals and werewolf dryads who are accountants and things and stuff. I want to write about any damn thing that floats through my cranium and get paid for it, too.

Now, I understand that this ideal version of events is unlikely to transpire, barring some huge violation of the laws of probability. I accept that. However, having recognized that Scenario #1 is unlikely, I do not then substitute a more reasonable one. For example, a reasonable ambition would be to write books in my chosen genre puddle for a living. This would be time-consuming and I'd have to deal with-- dah dah DARRR!-- editors, but it's both workable and desirable. It's a reasonable compromise between my ideal and reality.

But I don't stop there. Oh, no. Before I can even properly observe the processes involved, I've mentally compromised myself down to writing the instruction manual for ZarggGlubYuth's Infant Adrenal Gland Extractor MkII (or teen romances, whatever comes first) and then I get all glum and have to get drunk and eat yoghurt raisins until I feel better.

I have got-- got-- got to stop this whole compromise ad absurdum stuff, and get some really realistic Plan.

When I have my Plan, I will do Stuff.

Fear me.
But enough about me...

Odd. I've been voted in as the subject for this week's Barbinterview. Given my relentless narcissism, I'm surprised there's anything about me that people didn't know. Still, there ya go...

Sunday, September 29, 2002

Saturday, September 28, 2002

Heads up.

One from the inbox:

Dear supporter of's 9-11Peace campaign,

An American war against Iraq grows more likely with each passing day. But there is still something important you can do to help stop it.

President Bush needs the United Kingdom's support for a war, because your country is a member of the United Nations Security Council.

John Hodgson, a British citizen, recently proposed taking the message below to your national leaders. Please contact them at:

Prime Minister Tony Blair
020 7219 5676
or 01429 882202

Foreign Secretary Jack Straw
020 7219 5070
or 01254 52317

M.P. Tam Dalyell
020 7219 3427
or 01506 834255

M.P. Chris Smith
020 7219 5119
or 020 7607 8373

Or try the main number for Parliament: 020 7219 3000

Make sure their offices know you're calling regarding the possible war on Iraq, and urge them to ensure that the U.K. opposes any U.N. Security Council resolution authorizing an attack on Iraq.

Your own words are always best, but you may find it helpful to use some of the arguments made below by John Hodgson.


No justification

Mr Blair:

You constantly speak of building a better Britain and a better world. But we cannot do that by illegal attacks on a sovereign state that has not attacked us and shows no plausible intention of doing so. It is clear that the US feels itself justified to engage in global bullying for economic interest, but our role is to show that there is a better
way to world peace. That way is by respecting the rule of law, the autonomy of other states, and the importance of the United Nations.

- John Hodgson, Higher Education (September 20, 2002; Bristol, United


Your voice really counts here. Please make these important calls today.

Also, please let us know you've called, by clicking here:
Keeping a count helps make this work more effective.

Thank you.

- Eli Pariser
International Campaigns Director,
Founder, 9-11Peace Campaign
September 26, 2002
Harassed Jordanian woman flips out!

Okay, I'm anti-violence and so forth, but this still made me grin a bit. Apparently three guys had got into the habit of bawling sexual obsceneties at this woman whenever they saw her around-- till the day she ripped off her cloak and her veil, and proceed to kick seven kinds of hell out of them. Apparently she'd been sitting on some serious martial arts skills.


(Snaffled from Sarcasmo's Corner)
Ananova - Edwina Currie reveals four-year affair with John Major

I'd just like to say "eeeeeewwwwwww".

I note that I am still getting upwards of seventy-eighty hits a day from Solonor's (good and colour changey and toyfilled) blog. This is fine; I always need fresh minions. However, every single one of these hits relates to Spiderman Will Make You Gay. I have a couple of things I really have to get off my chest about this:

1) S.W.M.Y.G. is not that funny.

It's funny in a philosophically absurd sorta way (Concept: sexual orientation. Percept: watching Spiderman dance will permenantly change said orientation). One can entertain oneself by comparing and contrasting S.W.M.Y.G. and the attitudes of people who think that Clause 28 is all that protects our children from growing up to be bulldykes or nancyboys. It's funny because... well, Spiderman, dancing, you know, it's a thing. But it's not amazingly hugely terrifically funny. (Unlike, say, a troupe of plastic skeletons dancing to a cover of Y.M.C.A., which was that funny and still had some funny left over for a bag of chips.)

2) Am I the only person alive who doesn't find the word "gay" inherently funny?

Why is "gay" funny? It's not funny. It started out not funny and it got less funny from there. Here's a little known fact: Every time you say "gay" like it's funny, it gets less funny. Saying "gay" like it's funny is now so far into not-funnyness it's become a source of superdense not-funny. It is Weapons Grade not-funny. You could hurt someone with that. Terrorists could get hold of it.

Here's why "gay" seems funny from a certain angle: "Gay" has become a random derogatory term, as in "that game is gay", "your shoes are gay", "this Counterstrike map is gay". There is much absurdity to play with here and we're all about the absurdity. I understood that part. I also got the part where the randomly cruel and vile things that kids say to each other in the school playground are cripplingly funny, given a certain distance.

Here's why the "gay" thing isn't that funny after all: Pretend it's you. Instead of "gay", insert whatever you got or still get the piss mercilessly ripped out of you for. Then pretend that the prejudices against this thing, whatever it was, were hedged around by laws and rules and clauses. Pretend that many powerful individuals agreed that you were wrong and peculiar, and made laws accordingly. Pretend this trait could get you turned down for jobs, or even fired. Pretend that it seems as though it's okay for everyone to hate you.

Assuming that some or all of this is already true, add "being gay" to the mix and see if things would improve much. Still laughing?

Friday, September 27, 2002

Girl's night out: an open letter to female bloggers

Prompted by something kookymojo wrote recently, I've been hunting around for interesting blogs by women.

I've found the whole excercise really disturbing.

Apart from some notable exceptions (see Kooky's list and my sidebar), the writers seem so damn limited in what they'll allow themselves to think or to be. It's as if there's a tarot hand of possible identities that women bloggers feel forced to choose from: The Bitch, the Diva, The Mother, the Domestic Goddess, the Divinely Damaged Girl. At best, w.b.'s permit themselves to blend a couple of these flavours together: the Bitch who is also (ta DAH!) a Diva, the Damaged Girl who's also-- get this-- a Mother...

"Hey, bet you didn't see that one coming, didja? Bet you're shaken out of your complacent view of women by the fact that the writer has managed to combine TWO meaningless gender stereotypes in ONE handy blog. Look how complex and multilayered I am! I bet you're really impressed! Arencha? Arencha?"

Well... no, as it goes. Very no. You've enlarged your cage a little, but you're still locked up. I know that's ultimately true of all of us, but these are such tiny, tiny confines to write within. I'm beginning to suspect that one reason male bloggers are more prevalent or more widely read is that men are (very generally) less willing to buy into stereotypes, or at least less likely to occupy them full-time.

You are not a cartoon character. You contain worlds. Everyone does.


I swear. I get PMS that could strangle a sodding goat and d'you know what? I still find other things to talk about. If you're eighteen or under you might reasonably be forgiven for thinking that you're the first person since Marie Curie to combine oestragen and higher brain functions, but when you hit thirty it starts to look a bit daft. You have a voice, now stop trying to be an echo.

Chromosomally yours,


PS: And how come we've all ended up with the same sitemeter? That's... that's scary, that is.

PPs: No yodelling, either.

Thursday, September 26, 2002

Optical illusion

Have a look at this-- it's a bit good.

(From (the same place I always get stuff like this).
Again you have failed me!

I give you wretched wretches the simplest task (winning me the Grauniad's bloody stupid weblog compo) and you FAIL ME! Do not try my patience, puny ones. I can always get new minions-- can you say the same for your internal organs?

*Feeds tidbits to pet mutant piranahgoatdonkeycat from gauntleted fingers*
If finding this funny makes me a bad person, I don't want to be good.

(Put it down-- you don't know where it's been.)

Wednesday, September 25, 2002

Doctor Fish

Jesus H. Christ in an all-male jaccuzzi, but I am TIRED. I am a tired wee Gothling. Did I mention that I hate packing? I did? Repeatedly and at length? Good. Hope you're all really bored.

So, magick. Haven't written anything on the ol' magick for a while now.

I'm currently working on some health magick because what with evil stomach bugs and some other stuff, my health is not very healthy. I've been trying to re-jig my immune system (utilizing trance states and visualization) but that seems to have backfired; I'm still coming down with foul things and my allergies are raging out of control. Still, I will persevere. The fact that I'm seeing an effect, any effect... well, that's reason to continue, no?

What I've done is, I've adapted the visualizations to include some more specific "repair" scenes. I've constructed a mystic gunk-tank in mindspace, sort of like the bacta tank from The Empire Strikes Back only with purple goo and just generally cooler-looking. Tonight I'm going to add some luminous silvery fishy things whose job it will be to swim around in the purple goo and nibble away at any negative stuff, physical or otherwise, that might be messing with my health. (I got the idea from "doctor fish".) If this pattern works well, I'll improve on it so that I can be all like a superhero and stuff.

Oh, and I've decided to spend next week EVIL. (Strictly for research purposes, you understand.) Unless I get bored.
emergency.PARADIGM has some excellent photos by Dinnie Corvidae. They are B&W images of graffiti from New York. Check'em out!
Oh, please. Look, I know everyone wants to get a "haunted" item on Ebay these days but this is just silly: wanna buy a haunted crap paperback edition of Atlas Shrugged?

(From Cruel Site of The Day)
Real-Time Testing of Internet Filtering in China

I'm obviously not trying hard enough.

(Via just about everybody, really.)

The beginning of the end...

Just saw off the Bearded One, plus a huge suitcase, rucksack and laptop. I miss the little pervert already *sniffle*. He's going to our new flat in Cork, I'm staying here to pack, sulk, eat too much junk food, and recover from various farewell bashes. I shall be joining him in a couple of weeks if all goes to plan.

I haven't been doing much writing lately, not even posting here or on the messageboards that I haunt in my various guises. I have got to pull myself together and finish something new this week. S'just, at the moment, nothing's really pushing the old writey buttons. I don't have any short story ideas at present and my novel is well and truly stalled; here's hoping that moving will unstick something.

Monday, September 23, 2002

Obligatory random whinge

Oh, bloody hell-- just realised I haven't updated since Friday. Aughhh.

Okay. Life in boxes. Floor covered in crud and old copies of New Scientist. Many things I would rather not have to chuck out/leave behind will have to be chucked out/left behind. Hate moving. Gah.

Hugs to all those who made the big farewell bash last Sat., and to Luke who phoned in at 4:00 am Oz time and wished us happy trails. (Missed ya, dude. The sooner we get that website up and running, the better.) For those who couldn't be there: fret ye not, seperate arrangements will be made soon.

The bathroom ceiling is still in a state of romantic ruin. There are now even more holes in it, thanks to the surveyors. Stringy tendrils of fungus wave languidly in the draughts between the joists, and little showers of rust-coloured spores and perished plaster rattle down onto the heads of unwary bathers. I have visions of the whole building imploding a la Poltergiest just as the removal van pulls away from the curb.

Friday, September 20, 2002

Gaze upon the glory that is A Tribute to Ray Harryhausen! It-- it-- it's... wonderous!

(Snaffled fromLuke.)
The plot thickens...

Y'know I'm moving to Ireland, right? Well, a couple of days ago the folks up at Barcelona phoned up the Bearded One to offer him a job out there. So now we're going to be in Cork 'till April, then we're gonna do BARCAAAA!

I'm a bit nervous, for various reasons. Chief amongst these is that I don't speak Catalan, or even Spanish-- or any other languages, really, apart from this one. You've all heard the joke:

"What d'you call someone who speaks three languages?"
"What d'you call someone who speaks two languages?"
"What d'you call someone who speaks one language?"

I am that joke. I've no excuse, either; I do pick languages up fast, but I drop them again even quicker if I don't practice.

The recent paucity of updates is due largely to the mad packing and chucking frenzy currently eating up my life. I'm trying to condense a whole flatload of stuff into something that'll fit in the back of a garage. It's not easy. I'm going to really miss my books; I plan to offload or store everything except a few novels and some of my electronics textbooks. I shan't be able to buy any new ones for months, which is going to be a bit Arrrgh. Oh, well. If I want something to occupy me I'll just have to get writing, and hard.

Tuesday, September 17, 2002

Orange Monkey and pals frighten me. (B3ta.)
The Barbelith Underground is open for new members.

Actually, it's been open for new members for a while now, but I didn't tell you lot before because you're not cool enough to join. And anyway, secrets make me feel all warm in special places.

While I'm at it...

Decided to change the title to the non-mangled version of the Watchmen quote. Bit nastier, but I stopped short of all the stuff about burst stomachs.
New email addy!

Right, since hotmail won't cough up my password and I'm sick of their lousy non-functioning spam filters anyway, I will henceforth be using the far more appropriate Make a note.

Sunday, September 15, 2002

Meat or Accident?
Lovely. My continued vegetarianism is ensured. (Music and grossness warning.)

(From the B3TA newsletter.)

Saturday, September 14, 2002


I'm locked out of my hotmail account! Please don't use the MordantCarnival@hotmail acc. until I get it sorted.
Moving on

As some of you already know, I'm going to be leaving London in a few weeks and moving to Cork. Yes! The Bearded One has finally got a job! At Cork Uni! I'm so chuffed! I've broken out in a nasty rash of exclamation marks!

He's off in a few days to find us a place to live. I'm going to sort things like packing out from this end (which means no more repeat-until-insane temp job for at least a few weeks). Yayness abounds.

There's stuff I'll miss, mostly my mates, but having been here for eight years I sort of feel like I've done London, y'know? There's always a lot going on here but it's so pricey you can't afford half of it. I'll miss the clubs and so forth ('specially the TG), but to be honest most of the best times I've had here have consisted of slouching round somebody's flat and playing computer games or watching videos, or slouching round in the pub and talking about playing computer games and wathcing vidoes. All of which I can still do in Cork. Plus I'll prolly be able to come back few months-- flights are cheap as chips.

It's funny how quickly things change. Last Tuesday I was feeling trapped and fed up and all cheesed-off generally, then a couple of days later I find out that we're leaving the country altogether in about three weeks' time.

I've been taking stock, remembering what it was like when I first moved here: not yet twenty-one, few friends, no money, no job, and no prospects. Now I've got half a degree, a sprawling social circle made up of excellent people, and I've started to actually sell stories. Best of all I've got the Bearded one, who helped make all the good stuff possible.

I'm still brassic lint, but hey.

Friday, September 13, 2002

Jive turkey takes epileptic for £3500

Perth, Scotland: An epileptic has been ordered to pay ludicrous amounts of compensation to a woman who claimed she suffered post-traumatic stress after seeing his face during a seizure.

Edwin Young has been told that he must cough up three and a half grand to compensate ripoff merchant Yvonne Rennie for the "trauma" she suffered as a result of seeing his face during a fit.

Young apparently suffered an epileptic fit while driving. He crashed into the vehicle that self-centered histeronic Rennie was driving, causing her slight injuries. Suspected prat Young owned up to having caused the accident and was duly ordered to pay a reasonably hefty fifteen hundred for Rennie's injuries, plus another grand to hire her a counsellor.

Sheriff Michael Fletcher, who one sincerely hopes was on glue or something at the time because if he makes this sort of judgement straight there's no hope for him, said: "The defender's face was contorted and this led the pursuer to believe that he was having a heart attack and was dying... The image of his face upset her." Presumably if Young really had died, this bozo would have ordered his grieving relatives to pay double.

Grade-A dillweed Fletcher admitted that Rennie was probably exaggerating the psychological impact of the incident, saying "For instance, although the accident happened at traffic lights and none of the vehicles was travelling excessively fast, the pursuer indicated she thought she was going to be killed." However, he still ordered Young to give the scrounger another three and a half thousand quid.

What the hell an epo was doing driving a bloody car in the first place is a mystery to those epileptics who haven't even been on a bicycle since they got diagnosed. Young is suspected in some quarters of being a complete prat who deserves everything he got and of being bastard lucky he didn't get himself killed.

Mrs Rennie said: "You cannot write anything about this. I will be contacting Tony Blair about this."

Mr Young said: "She can get stuffed."

Chronic epileptic Mordant Carnival said: "After witnessing this disgusting spectacle of greed, selfishness and total stupidity, I have post-traumatic stress. Can I have three and a half grand, please?"

Mordant Carnival's boyfriend, who has seen her have upwards of a hundred fits, remains strangely untraumatized. And he has to wipe up the drool.

Wednesday, September 11, 2002


There's a fire-station across the road from me. I looked out of the window today, and saw the crew all lining up outside. They were in what I suppose to be their dress uniforms. They were shuffling their feet and checking their watches as they were inspected. Then they stood to attention, looking straight ahead; invisible behind net curtains, I looked on. The roar of the traffic didn't change. Buses, cars and lorries came and went; people bustled up and down the road. The workers digging up the street outside paused only for a few seconds.

The fire crew stood to attention, in silence. I watched as they paid their respects to their collegues, under a bright Autumn sky. I watched them and then I went back to my keyboard; they went back to risking their lives.

Just another ordinary day.
Grr, arrgh.

Nothing to say except that I spent today angry. I don't know why. I was feeling angry last night, and then I sort of chilled out, but then I woke up and I was angry again.

Being angry all day when you've got a job like mine is very uncomfortable. You need to be very calm to cope with it, to lull yourself into a state of placidity. If you're in a bad mood there's nothing in your work to distract you from those feelings; they just run rampant.

So there was nothing I could do except be angry, all day long. Angry because I'm still working for five pounds an hour, angry at the fact that my entire job seems to consist of creating pure trash, angry because I've worked so hard to learn, to move, to better myself, and yet the only use the world seems to have for me is to do those jobs too fragmented for a robot, angry at the news on the TV, angry at the women's magazines in the staffroom, angry at everything and everyone. And it wouldn't stop.

Then they told me I didn't have to come in tomorrow because they've no work. No work for the rest of the week, and probably no work until the middle of next week. And so I'm still angry.

I submitted a story today, to a webzine. There's no way are they're ever going to accept it (they're much too classy for me) but at least I sent it out.

Monday, September 09, 2002


"0wnz0red" R0x0rz!
Got this deadly little yarn from Sashinka. Without giving too much of the story away, it's about hacking your body at a cellular level. Put all manner of ideas in my bad bald bonce. Werl, I say put; they were sort of already there, just needing a bit of a nudge. Anyway, I strongly recommend "0wnz0red" to my chaotic readers.

See, I'm a still a hopeless dunce when it comes to the 'puter. But magick, that's different; when it comes to magick I am fast becoming d4 l337 h4x0r. I can use magick now like I would use my arm, or my language. Or a possibly a spoon. It's all a matter of knowing just how to express things so that your [higher self/temporal lobe/guardian angel/insert pet theory here] can understand it and get working on the problem. (Oh, and kicking my obsessiveness in the nuts, which is where it all falls down, of course.)

For my next trick, laydeez'n'jentz, I plan to reprogram my immune system, inna CM stylee-ah. I have hayfever and allergies, yet I still get colds. I need to convince my immune system to stop chasing after feathers and pollen and dust-mite crap, and start taking out germs instead. It's like having a supermean guard dog that eats postmen but leg-humps burglars. I'm going to go in and Have Words. If it works it'll be really great 'coz then I could fix it so I never get cancer.

Also I want a left-handed can-opener. I've just gone three falls and a submission with a catering-size tin of ratatouille, and it's really buggered up my mood.

Saturday, September 07, 2002

Hello again, you pack of charmless imbeciles. God, I hate you. Why don't you all sod off? Go on, go and get lives.

I found a snail in the bathroom. I find them fairly often, as it goes. I don't know if it came up through the drains or through a crack in the wall, or what. My flat is just shot, man. Rotting ceilings, wierd little brown beetles in the carpet, silverfish, clothes moths nibbling holes in the t-shirts... the place is alive.

At least we got rid of the rats.

I still 0wn the search gizmo at work, BTW. I'm getting a bit tired of playing with it now, though, and I'm ready to move onto something a bit meatier. Since I have very little reliable data on psionics I don't really know what can and can't be achieved by your average Joe. I realized today that I've fought shy of trying anything I wasn't reasonably sure would work, in case my fwagile confidence got a nasty boo-boo.

This is, of course, codswallop. You have to keep pushing those limits, man, in this as in everything. Screw all this faffing around-- I'm never going to get anywhere if I let fear-of-faliure do the driving. I am tuff and mean. Yer.

Anyhow, I'm now casting around for a suitable project. I'm thinking of something involving Brownian motion.

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

Monkey makes fabulous sorbet in a sack is all about making fabulous sorbet. In a sack. Terrycloth monkey optional.

(From the BIMBO rejected links pages)

I'm planning a bit of an overhaul of my blog over the next few days. Frankly, it's become a bit of a mess over the months since I started it.

I want to have three columns instead of two, so I can put the Victims and the 1p Chews on one side, and the Errant Foolishness, the tagboard and various odds & sods on the other. I'm going to ponce a skin from, but I'll have to tweak it a bit because I want to keep this typeface & colour scheme. Plus, I keep meaning to put the haunted piccy back up. People liked the haunted piccy.

I plan to add a quick bio , and maybe an FAQ. Eventually I'm going to bung a little piece on the side explaining that I'd quite like to write for a living and would welcome advice, job offers, blah, blah, blah. I'm going to take a leaf out of Sasha's book, and put some of my writing online for interested folk to peruse.

Another change I'm thinking of making is the title. The pre-zilla version, "dead dog in alleyway this morning..." is derived from the opening lines of Watchmen. The actual quote runs: "dog carcass in alley this morning", but I prefer alleyway to alley and felt that "dog carcass" was a bit harsh for a blog title. But now I'm thinking, fuck it, I feel harsh some days.

Tuesday, September 03, 2002

Great Pan is dead...

...and now, so's Hanuman: Mortality check for monkey 'god' -

I feel sad. The Barbelith Underground made me sad again. Go and punch them in the thigh for me.
"What were they thinking?"

Oh, boy. I'd never have believed it if I hadn't seen it. Here's what they're saying about the Harry Potter Nimbus 2000 Broom on Amazon:

"Enhancing the excitement are the vibrating effects and magical swooping and whooshing sounds the broom makes..."

"Even my daughter's friends enjoy playing with this fun toy. I was surprised at how long they can just sit in her room and play with this magic broomstick!"

"My only problem I see with the toy is the batteries drain too fast..."

"My oldest daughter (17) really likes it too!"

Are you going to tell them, or shall I?

(Via the Barbelith Underground.)

Monday, September 02, 2002

"These aren't the droids you're looking for..."

Went back to work today. Got the anticipated pi-jaw: "Oh, yes, we know you were ill, but we need to be able to rely on you or we'll have to let you go, blah blah blah." I was expecting something like that, but it's still a bit stressful. Hopefully things will be a bit more stable now.

It was easier today. Still the same mind-meltingly tedious and repetative tasks, but I'm getting into the groove now. The work is intruding less, and I'm using the unoccupied slots in my conciousness more effectively. Today I was able to use the spare processing power to work on a couple of stories, one of which I hope to complete in the next two or three days, and to run through some visualization exercises. Principally these have been geared toward building up my psionic muscles.

See, we've got these random search devices at work, one at each exit and one by the bogs. If you leave the workplace or go to scrub up, you have to press the search button. If you get a green light and a *bleep* you can just walk past, but if the light's red a shrill buzzer sounds and you have to wait for Search Bloke to come and wave a metal detector at you. Since I am neither a moron nor a klepto I have no intention of nicking anything from my nice employers, ergo being searched is all beneath me and things. So what I do is, I picture the innards of the random search gizmo in rough schematic form, with the green lamp lit. As I approach the device I fill my head with green, green, green, and the bleep the device makes when it lets you by unsearched. Since I started dickering in this way I haven't been searched once.

Okay, so I'm not shooting lightning out of my fingers yet, but it's a start.

The one about the Polish starlet

The other day I found myself thinking back to a conversation I had about six (seven?) years ago, with this writer friend of a friend. He suggested basically flogging a few stories off to the film industry. I considered it, but eventually ditched the idea. At that time in my life I had my work cut out just keeping my head above water; writing anything resembling a coherent story was a very rare event. And even if I got something accepted by a studio, what then? Once the story was handed over, I wouldn't get to play with it anymore. I like the way that I can have an idea, write the story, realise it sucks, stick it in a drawer, ignore it for years, come up with another idea, do the same thing... and then one or three or six years later, I turn round and the stories have got all sweaty and intimate together and there-- there! is the real story, the one I missed by a whisker years before. If the initial story wasn't mine anymore, if someone else had it, it might not be able to have sex with any of my other stories in future.

But I'm having a bit of a re-think. Ideally, I'd like to do a whole screenplay one day, but since I write the most gawdawful fibreboard dialogue that's still a long way off. But stories... I have one or two decentish little notions, not much use to me as they are, but healthy and of good stock. Maybe it's time to put some of them out to stud.
You are all my bug-guzzling lunatic slaves.

And yet, you have failed me. I gave you one simple magickal ritual to perform and yet somehow-- somehow-- I am still putting earrings in boxes instead of having a nice cushy column somewhere.

You may yet redeem yourselves, however.

You may remember the Grauniad's bloody stupid Best British Blog competition, yes? And you may remember that I had entered for said competition.

Now, see that sigil ritual which you all so pathetically failed at before? Do it again, only with getting me that £1000 prize as your stated intent.

Do not fail me again, puny ones.

Sunday, September 01, 2002


Yep, today was all manner of better. Tidied up my prehistoric mammal yarn-- now it's all ready for the off. Before I actually try and flog it to anyone, I think I'll let it stand for a day or two so all the more egregious grammatical and continuity errors can float to the surface. The dosh came thru from this vampire thing (STOP LAUGHING!) that I sold a couple of months back, which is good. I also discovered that I've somehow managed to pay off a hundred pounds of my credit-card debt over the last few months, using my patent guess-the-minimum-payment-and-add-a-few-quid-for-luck technique.

For some reason my psi and magickal work has been coming on apace lately. I don't know if it's just that being ill has temporarily knocked out some of my perceptual and cognitive filters, but it's going well-- very well. I feel pretty... pumped, I suppose. (If I go all black-eyed and vieny, you'll tell me, won't you?)

Oh, and I'd just like to add a quick plug for Gray Bat -- a resource for speculative writers. I've been finding their daily homework assignments very helpful lately.