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?"
"Trilingual."
"What d'you call someone who speaks two languages?"
"Bilingual."
"What d'you call someone who speaks one language?"
"English!"
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.
Friday, September 20, 2002
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
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.
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.
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 MordantCarnival@istillhateyou.com. Make a note.
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 MordantCarnival@istillhateyou.com. Make a note.
Sunday, September 15, 2002
Meat or Accident?
Lovely. My continued vegetarianism is ensured. (Music and grossness warning.)
(From the B3TA newsletter.)
Lovely. My continued vegetarianism is ensured. (Music and grossness warning.)
(From the B3TA newsletter.)
Saturday, September 14, 2002
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.
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.
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
Silence
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.
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.
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
w00t!!!
"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.
"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.
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)
(From the BIMBO rejected links pages)
Refit
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 Blogskins.com, 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.
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 Blogskins.com, 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' - smh.com.au
I feel sad. The Barbelith Underground made me sad again. Go and punch them in the thigh for me.
...and now, so's Hanuman: Mortality check for monkey 'god' - smh.com.au
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:
Are you going to tell them, or shall I?
(Via the Barbelith Underground.)
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.
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.
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
Better.
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.
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.
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