Monthly Archives: July 2007

Proof That the Web Is Self-aware

So hey, I was writing a semi-whiny blog entry last night, and apparently it was not only semi-whiny but also fully dull, because I fell asleep while working on it. The only part worth salvaging is the very beginning:

I just had a major discovery in the realm of What Makes Me Cranky and/or Blue (and at this point I encourage you to imagine an odd table-top machine with a bellows and gears and ratchets and a morning glory phonograph horn, with all the bits coated in camp-dish blue enamel — you know, the kind with little white flecks). It’s nice to know what I can expect when I turn the handle of the machine.

The epiphany itself had to do with predicting bouts of frustration and self-recrimination and various other unpleasant things that end with shun.

Anyway, when I woke up this morning my internet access was kaput, so I wasn’t able to post the entry. And now my better judgement has been restored along with my access to teh intarweb.


After a quiet weekend I’ve just about kicked the bug — down to a bit of coughing and a tendency to tire out which I ought to shake in the next day or two.

The Write-a-thon update: I did get some work done on the Week 3 & 4 story, but I’m still not satisfied with the ending. I’ll keep at it, but the main focus this week will be “Maura Makes Circuits”. This was originally a failed attempt at NaNoWriMo 2004, abandoned after 11K words for an overhaul of what is now The Goddess of Nothing in Particular. I picked up “Maura” again during my third week at Clarion West, when, due the vagaries of scheduling, I only had a few days to submit a story and I felt justified in pulling something out of the trunk. That version had around the same net word count after around 3K words in and out.

I still think it could be a novel someday, but the goal this week is to create a tight 7- or 8K-word story using the Aristotlean Now. Bye bye flashbacks. Most of them, anyway.

The opening section is actually excerpted here. Sorry if the entry brings back unpleasant electoral memories (I’m looking at you, Ohio).

Bubble and Squeak

I’m just about recovered from a nasty set of flu-like symptoms. I’m being cautious with the descriptor because the symptoms came on so strangely it could have been laryngitis followed by food poisoning. On Saturday I lost most of my voice over the course of three hours, which was an especially odd experience because I also happened to be in the Steward’s Enclosure at the Henley Royal Regatta. I didn’t lose my voice hootin’ and hollerin’ for the Harvard crew (tut), although there was a gravelly “Go, Crimson!” or two. Henley — a time machine with canvas walls and mud floors and perhaps the most champagne-endowed parking lot in the world — deserves its own entry, but at the moment I don’t have the coherence to do justice to an event with insanely stripy blazers, delicious oysters, and guards posted to make sure my mandatory skirt didn’t reveal my knees.

I spent Sunday raspy and squeaky and tired but well supplied by A with broth and Chloraseptic. I didn’t have any reason to expect the dramatic involvement of my gastrointestinal system on Monday night (“Hi, Carrot Soup! Bye, Carrot Soup!). That kept me up until 3:00 a.m., but I still managed a fairly heavy-duty conference call the next afternoon. I was supposed to go up north for the meeting, but I don’t like the Virgin Train bathrooms under the best of circumstances, so yeah, no travel. Plus I was starting to crave brains and I thought I would do my part to keep the zombie virus confined to Canary Wharf (like that ever works).

This morning was all about the hacking cough and inability to focus for more than three seconds, but I expect the latter was just an after effect of my stomach’s No Soup for You policy. I ate with more determination this afternoon (BRRRAAAIIIINNNSSSS), and although my throat is still clearing itself I have every reason to believe I’ll be up and at ’em tomorrow morning.

By the way, the UK equivalent of NyQuil is Night Nurse, which makes it ever so much easier to personify the comforting cuddly oblivion of the Other Green Fairy.

Of course none of this helped my Write-a-thon stats: didn’t wrap up the Week 3 story, and I haven’t picked up anything for Week 4. I’m going to renew plugging away at the Week 3 story and write off (ahem) Week Four. Official Reason: Debilitating Zombie Virus.

The British Are Coming

Busy week, although I did manage to celebrate the 4th after work with steak soft tacos and Mexican beer graciously carted up to my apartment by A, because that’s part of edible America I miss. Then we watched Hot Fuzz followed by several episodes of the Venture Brothers (“Hot dolphin!”).

Also, I believe I’ve stumbled upon a conspiracy:

Any day now George Bush will rip through his ConTexasicut accent and dipshit syntax like an alien emerging from John Hurt’s belly and suddenly begin speaking the Queen’s English as well as HRH. And he will immediately use his newly-exposed erudition to announce the official return of the monarchy. And that’s when we all notice that “W” is just a pair of Vs, an “X” with training wheels, and George the Tenth will continuing doing as he damn well pleases.

At which point we’ll have to take our powder, take our guns, and report to General Washington all over again.

One request for Constitution 2.0, though: can we please please please leave out the Electoral College?


A quick Write-a-thon update:

I did finish revisions to “The Last Taste” so off it goes to Weird Tales. “The Diplomat’s Holiday” is still under construction, but again I’m keeping to the schedule and switching to the next revision candidate, “Where the Time Goes”. The opening:

“I’m gonna kill you.” Chambers stalked up to Martin and dropped a crusty sock on his console. “Maybe a little death will keep you from leaving your stuff all over the ship.”

“We have a salvage run today,” Martin told her.

She flopped into the chair next to him. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll kill you tomorrow.”

“Okey doke.”

“So when’s our launch slot?”

Martin pushed the sock aside and checked the monitor. “15:05,” he said, but his answer was drowned out by the sudden noisy declaration that girls just wanted to have fuh-un.

“What the hell is that?”

“The new commtone,” Martin said. “I pulled it from the music archives in honor of today’s run. What do you think?”

“I think you should answer the comm and delete that tone,” Chambers said, adding too late, “Wait, who is it?”

Can’t you just feel the swash about to buckle?