So. Let's just say that after Peter Pan left Neverland he started spending more time in the regular world. During this time there was no one left to defend Neverland. The pirates and the lost boys fall into chaos without a strong leadership and they begin skirmishing. Then the Others arrive.
And the arms dealer, who pits faction against faction selling modern weapons of destruction in exchange for dreams and memories.
Tinkerbell has lost faith that Pan will return, and a new cult of Pirates and the Lost Boys led by Mr. Smee await the return of Captain Hook, the only man who can return a semblance of order to a tribe of the Lost and a new crew of bloodthirsty pirates led by Israel Hands.
Let's just say it's the end of the world, and this time the villain is the only one who can save The Neverland.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Wacky world of Fractals
Last night I medicated and decided to watch something educational on the internets. Being a science fiction fan I was looking for a documentary on a favorite author, in this case Arthur C. Clarke, when I happened upon a documentary about Fractal Geometry that he'd hosted in the early nineties.
I think that were I not medicated I wouldn't have been as into it as I was, but nonetheless its an interesting subject. Emphasis is placed on the M-Set, which is a formula that produces infinitely complex patterns. An interesting idea, that there is some way to very abstrusely model infinity with computers. I'm not a math guy, so I will take Clarke's word for it.
I think that were I not medicated I wouldn't have been as into it as I was, but nonetheless its an interesting subject. Emphasis is placed on the M-Set, which is a formula that produces infinitely complex patterns. An interesting idea, that there is some way to very abstrusely model infinity with computers. I'm not a math guy, so I will take Clarke's word for it.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sgt. Pepper
Started working on some existentialist rant about the self as it relates to language and decided to include it into the novel rough draft. That is continuing to evolve at a very slow pace, but that's fine. If this is going to be something I pour everything into I can afford to wait until it's right.
It's the night before thanksgiving. I've got two pigeons marinating in apple juice concentrate and cinnamon, cranberries ready to get made into a pie and a sauce, I went ahead and baked some yams that will go into a sweet potato casserole, and then there's the stuffing. All in all not a bad little feast if all goes according to plan. First Thanksgiving I've ever prepared, let's hope it works.
It's the night before thanksgiving. I've got two pigeons marinating in apple juice concentrate and cinnamon, cranberries ready to get made into a pie and a sauce, I went ahead and baked some yams that will go into a sweet potato casserole, and then there's the stuffing. All in all not a bad little feast if all goes according to plan. First Thanksgiving I've ever prepared, let's hope it works.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Unacceptable
The delay between last post and this one. Though granted my current readership extends to one person I knew in college.
Neurotransmitters seem to have normalized to some extent, and this is good enough for now. Depression is a relatively insidious monster that creeps up on you in small increments and in the passage of normal day to day it is very difficult to tell that you are slowly being swallowed by it. At least in my recent experience.
And I'm off for a week. Now it's time to get some writing done... or play a lot of Tetris .
Neurotransmitters seem to have normalized to some extent, and this is good enough for now. Depression is a relatively insidious monster that creeps up on you in small increments and in the passage of normal day to day it is very difficult to tell that you are slowly being swallowed by it. At least in my recent experience.
And I'm off for a week. Now it's time to get some writing done... or play a lot of Tetris .
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
I started reading On Stranger Tides and not only because Johnny Depp will be in the movie adaption latest Pirates of the Caribbean sequel.
This has been a fun read so far, and speaks to me black heart in a language it can well understand.
Very little writing done, neurotransmitters are readjusting. Please stand by.
This has been a fun read so far, and speaks to me black heart in a language it can well understand.
Very little writing done, neurotransmitters are readjusting. Please stand by.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Short writing
Today at boingboing.net there's a contest for 100 word "found in space" themed stories. Grand prize is a 700 dollar computer.
here's my entry. or entreaty, as it were.
Albuquerque
City Limits
Elev 5000
The green and white metal sign floated through the void, rotating at intervals. It was scratched and pitted but the writing remained legible. A metal stake was still screwed into the opposite side.
The ship approached and idled long enough to catalogue the sign. The researches took a photon-impression and recreated it in a digital fashion within the ship’s biological computer bank. They thought to one another on the purpose of the object. A small psychic debate began.
The ship slid away into the blackness, and the sign continued to slowly spin through empty space.
here's my entry. or entreaty, as it were.
Albuquerque
City Limits
Elev 5000
The green and white metal sign floated through the void, rotating at intervals. It was scratched and pitted but the writing remained legible. A metal stake was still screwed into the opposite side.
The ship approached and idled long enough to catalogue the sign. The researches took a photon-impression and recreated it in a digital fashion within the ship’s biological computer bank. They thought to one another on the purpose of the object. A small psychic debate began.
The ship slid away into the blackness, and the sign continued to slowly spin through empty space.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The End of the Universe
The end of the universe came suddenly.
Neither a bang
nor a whimper.
The Man sat in the bus terminal as all reality crumpled itself neatly into a ball, and then deposited itself promptly in the omniscient trashcan. Beyond the dimly-lit overhang of the terminal was nothing, in all of its splendor.
The terminal was open on three sides, with a wall behind his seat, and an overhanging roof. The whole area of the terminal was much wider side to side than it was long.
The floor was the kind of indeterminately colored tile that refused to show dirt easily, and the light was the kind of soft zombie-light that was neither too harsh nor too soft. Perfect for reading, napping, or waiting.
And for all The Man could tell, THIS was all that was left. All the light. All the floor. All the waiting.
Outside was hard for The Man to describe
No light.
No dark.
It wasn't black
And it wasn't white.
But looking at it, The Man knew it for what it was. Absence. There was no way to mistake it. It was a wholly alien lack. It was the field in which space occupied, but bereft of space. It was uniform in its unimaginable emptiness. But The Man knew it when he saw it. As all things that live will recognize the end. Terminus, the inevitable cease of existence. But had any creature great or small ever witnessed a thing like this?
The Man's palms began to sweat. He looked around wildly in the flickering fluorescent lighting. Against all logic the lights were on. He hurriedly walked to the water fountain by the bulletin board announcing missing persons and the best rates to New Mexico.
The water flowed. It was cold, but tasted flat. The fountain had condensation around its drinking aperture. There was gum stuck in the drain, causing the water to pool before slowly making its way down the pipe.
Where did the water come from?
Where did it go?
The Man walked to the edge of the tile floor, onto what remained of the sidewalk and blacktop beyond the overhang. He stared into the emptiness. The impression was without depth. When he expected to stare into a bottomless pit, his experience was closer to staring at a wall his nose was pressed against. There was nothing to focus on. No sense of space.
He couldn't stand there for very long. And he didn't.
*
Someone had said something in the between of wakefulness and sleep.
The Man was reasonably sure it was important. He opened his eyes and brushed off his newspaper blanket. Someone had fixed the vending machines again. He didn't need to get up and inspect them to know that they'd been restocked.
Or at least, that was the first hypothesis.
What bothered The Man more than the isolation and the seeming tractlessness of time was the fact that he hadn't passed a bowel movement.
Not once.
And while his suit was understandably dirty, there was no ring around the collar. The general filth one would expect one's body to shed onto cotton after going days or weeks (how long had it been?) without a change of clothing was noticeably absent. The oil-stain on his knees was still there - from when he'd reached under the vending machine searching for loose change.
The Man didn't get hungry. He broke open the vending machines and ate every morning more out of routine than anything else. Once he had punctured a water-pipe while banging on it with a loosened tile, and managed to take an impromptu shower.
He gazed at that pipe now. He'd never have guessed it had ever been disturbed. Whoever came in here while he was sleeping certainly did a good job of repairing whatever he damaged. Cobwebs were returned, nicks and scratches in the glass were there.
One day The Man just carved his name into the wall with a pen. Then he took a nap. His name was noticeably absent when he awoke.
The antihypothesis was much less comforting, and The Man did not spend much time on it.
The Man walked up and down the terminal. Empty benches standing like monuments to the dead. Or lost. Or maybe he was lost. Maybe he was dead? The Man wasn't sure.
Sometimes he would speak loud enough for him to hear himself babble and warble and ramble on about nothing. And sometimes he would scream. He did not like the sound of his scream echoing back at him.
The world looked grayer to him every day.
The Man noticed that the emptiness was coming closer almost by accident.
The yellow line that indicated no one was supposed to stand beyond that space when the bus arrived had, he was relatively sure, been at the edge of the drop off to nothingness. But today it was gone.
The Man remembered what happened when he'd thrown a pocket full of loose change at the void.
He could see the coins shimmering in that horrible, ceaseless light
and then they were gone.
They never struck anything.
They never passed beyond the concrete.
They were just gone.
The Man sat at the bench and stared at his shadow beneath him. He knew he would have to take the plunge.
If he didn't walk into it, sooner or later it would come for him.
The Man shuddered. Imagining a small island in the stream of nothing. A bench atop a small patch of concrete. He sitting there with his legs pulled up as the world slowly melted into nothing....
He couldn't do that.
Better to meet the inevitable, The Man decided. He took up his coat and straightened it as best he could. He looked longingly at the empty exit lane that indicated the way out that was no way out at all. The Man strode forward to meet the audient void.
He stared long into the abyss.
And then he stepped forward
The bench he’d sat in remained warm for a long time.
Copyright 2008. All rights reserved.
Neither a bang
nor a whimper.
The Man sat in the bus terminal as all reality crumpled itself neatly into a ball, and then deposited itself promptly in the omniscient trashcan. Beyond the dimly-lit overhang of the terminal was nothing, in all of its splendor.
The terminal was open on three sides, with a wall behind his seat, and an overhanging roof. The whole area of the terminal was much wider side to side than it was long.
The floor was the kind of indeterminately colored tile that refused to show dirt easily, and the light was the kind of soft zombie-light that was neither too harsh nor too soft. Perfect for reading, napping, or waiting.
And for all The Man could tell, THIS was all that was left. All the light. All the floor. All the waiting.
Outside was hard for The Man to describe
No light.
No dark.
It wasn't black
And it wasn't white.
But looking at it, The Man knew it for what it was. Absence. There was no way to mistake it. It was a wholly alien lack. It was the field in which space occupied, but bereft of space. It was uniform in its unimaginable emptiness. But The Man knew it when he saw it. As all things that live will recognize the end. Terminus, the inevitable cease of existence. But had any creature great or small ever witnessed a thing like this?
The Man's palms began to sweat. He looked around wildly in the flickering fluorescent lighting. Against all logic the lights were on. He hurriedly walked to the water fountain by the bulletin board announcing missing persons and the best rates to New Mexico.
The water flowed. It was cold, but tasted flat. The fountain had condensation around its drinking aperture. There was gum stuck in the drain, causing the water to pool before slowly making its way down the pipe.
Where did the water come from?
Where did it go?
The Man walked to the edge of the tile floor, onto what remained of the sidewalk and blacktop beyond the overhang. He stared into the emptiness. The impression was without depth. When he expected to stare into a bottomless pit, his experience was closer to staring at a wall his nose was pressed against. There was nothing to focus on. No sense of space.
He couldn't stand there for very long. And he didn't.
*
Someone had said something in the between of wakefulness and sleep.
The Man was reasonably sure it was important. He opened his eyes and brushed off his newspaper blanket. Someone had fixed the vending machines again. He didn't need to get up and inspect them to know that they'd been restocked.
Or at least, that was the first hypothesis.
What bothered The Man more than the isolation and the seeming tractlessness of time was the fact that he hadn't passed a bowel movement.
Not once.
And while his suit was understandably dirty, there was no ring around the collar. The general filth one would expect one's body to shed onto cotton after going days or weeks (how long had it been?) without a change of clothing was noticeably absent. The oil-stain on his knees was still there - from when he'd reached under the vending machine searching for loose change.
The Man didn't get hungry. He broke open the vending machines and ate every morning more out of routine than anything else. Once he had punctured a water-pipe while banging on it with a loosened tile, and managed to take an impromptu shower.
He gazed at that pipe now. He'd never have guessed it had ever been disturbed. Whoever came in here while he was sleeping certainly did a good job of repairing whatever he damaged. Cobwebs were returned, nicks and scratches in the glass were there.
One day The Man just carved his name into the wall with a pen. Then he took a nap. His name was noticeably absent when he awoke.
The antihypothesis was much less comforting, and The Man did not spend much time on it.
The Man walked up and down the terminal. Empty benches standing like monuments to the dead. Or lost. Or maybe he was lost. Maybe he was dead? The Man wasn't sure.
Sometimes he would speak loud enough for him to hear himself babble and warble and ramble on about nothing. And sometimes he would scream. He did not like the sound of his scream echoing back at him.
The world looked grayer to him every day.
The Man noticed that the emptiness was coming closer almost by accident.
The yellow line that indicated no one was supposed to stand beyond that space when the bus arrived had, he was relatively sure, been at the edge of the drop off to nothingness. But today it was gone.
The Man remembered what happened when he'd thrown a pocket full of loose change at the void.
He could see the coins shimmering in that horrible, ceaseless light
and then they were gone.
They never struck anything.
They never passed beyond the concrete.
They were just gone.
The Man sat at the bench and stared at his shadow beneath him. He knew he would have to take the plunge.
If he didn't walk into it, sooner or later it would come for him.
The Man shuddered. Imagining a small island in the stream of nothing. A bench atop a small patch of concrete. He sitting there with his legs pulled up as the world slowly melted into nothing....
He couldn't do that.
Better to meet the inevitable, The Man decided. He took up his coat and straightened it as best he could. He looked longingly at the empty exit lane that indicated the way out that was no way out at all. The Man strode forward to meet the audient void.
He stared long into the abyss.
And then he stepped forward
The bench he’d sat in remained warm for a long time.
Copyright 2008. All rights reserved.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Burned fingers and writing
Yesterday I burned my middle and ring finger of my left hand whilst making waffles. It turns out the metal parts are best to be avoided when the red light is on.
2000 words dedicated strictly to the novel today. Most of this was in sequence, but the last five hundred or so was strictly jump around and may not necessarily end up in the same place when all is said and done.
The idea is to draw on life experience and tell a fictional story. The idea isn't fully formed yet, so I hesitate to concern myself overly much with the finished product. We'll see what we see when we see it, until then...
2000 words dedicated strictly to the novel today. Most of this was in sequence, but the last five hundred or so was strictly jump around and may not necessarily end up in the same place when all is said and done.
The idea is to draw on life experience and tell a fictional story. The idea isn't fully formed yet, so I hesitate to concern myself overly much with the finished product. We'll see what we see when we see it, until then...
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Happy Birthday!
A second birthday was today. It's been three years since my discharge, and I can't tell you what happened to the time. Married, divorced, and moved across the country two and a half times. Sounds like an exciting existence, but nothing could have been further from the truth (or Furthur, if you would).
So we come to it. Three years older and finally something beginning to show for it. I have never been so hopeful on an anniversary as I am on this one, in spite of the depression that's been plaguing my academic excursions. Nothing is certain, but I get the feeling that everything is going to be all right.
So we come to it. Three years older and finally something beginning to show for it. I have never been so hopeful on an anniversary as I am on this one, in spite of the depression that's been plaguing my academic excursions. Nothing is certain, but I get the feeling that everything is going to be all right.
Scrambled Egg Pizza
Buy a pre-done pizza to put things on. Use salsa liberally or hot sauce less liberally and coat the pizza crust. Place in oven and allow to warm.
Scramble some eggs with lots of cheese and whatever else you want on your pizza. Scramble to desired consistency. Then remove crust and combine. Serves 1-3 persons.
Scramble some eggs with lots of cheese and whatever else you want on your pizza. Scramble to desired consistency. Then remove crust and combine. Serves 1-3 persons.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Today.
Today is the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall that separated East Germany from the West. For many this day in history signals the end of hostilities between the two nuclear equipped superpowers: one was the Soviet Union and the other remains The United States.
I was very young when the wall came down. I can recall one year in school a map clearly demarcating a separation of Germany, and then suddenly Germany was one country. I failed to grasp the importance of this event at the time, but I do remember one thing: Hope.
An end to the cold war was regarded by some as the possible end of history - as famously stated by political economist Francis Fukuyama. There was an idea that the war was finally over. All war. Of course, we know that isn't the case today.
The Nineties, ostensibly a peaceful and prosperous time for an America riding the wake of the "victory" over the Soviets saw an unprecedented degree of genocidal conflicts fought for the purpose of "ethnic cleansing" in regions such as Kosovo, Rwanda, and Bangladesh to name a few.
Today, we live in a world that is increasingly polarized between the East and the West, or so it seems to me. When Samuel Huntington proposed a Clash of Civilizations to replace the War of Ideas between Capitalism and Communism few would have imagined the scope of the conflict we find ourselves in today.
And this is the world we live in. No longer divided between Communism and Capitalism - freedom and tyranny as many Americans saw it, we live in a world of conflicting cultures brought together in an increasingly interconnected world network. Grievances can now be aired across state boundaries without regard for geographic proximity. And the wars rage on around the world.
And now: Perspective.
It's also Carl Sagan's Birthday.
I was very young when the wall came down. I can recall one year in school a map clearly demarcating a separation of Germany, and then suddenly Germany was one country. I failed to grasp the importance of this event at the time, but I do remember one thing: Hope.
An end to the cold war was regarded by some as the possible end of history - as famously stated by political economist Francis Fukuyama. There was an idea that the war was finally over. All war. Of course, we know that isn't the case today.
The Nineties, ostensibly a peaceful and prosperous time for an America riding the wake of the "victory" over the Soviets saw an unprecedented degree of genocidal conflicts fought for the purpose of "ethnic cleansing" in regions such as Kosovo, Rwanda, and Bangladesh to name a few.
Today, we live in a world that is increasingly polarized between the East and the West, or so it seems to me. When Samuel Huntington proposed a Clash of Civilizations to replace the War of Ideas between Capitalism and Communism few would have imagined the scope of the conflict we find ourselves in today.
And this is the world we live in. No longer divided between Communism and Capitalism - freedom and tyranny as many Americans saw it, we live in a world of conflicting cultures brought together in an increasingly interconnected world network. Grievances can now be aired across state boundaries without regard for geographic proximity. And the wars rage on around the world.
And now: Perspective.
It's also Carl Sagan's Birthday.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Season of Cruelty
It had been a cruel season.
The sun had not come on time. The clouds, spewing frozen runoff that was neither snow nor rain, hung in the sky as the fields sat untended. The animals died, and so did the children.
The Priest danced until his feet bled and his knees swelled. He tranced and he prayed and he fasted and sang. And then one day he did not wake up. His body was dragged to the edge of the village and left. The ground was frozen through and digging was impossible. There was no spare wood to burn his body.
No one was ever able to offer much of an explanation. The old man named Victor raised his hands to the heavens and cursed the gods of man.
It is a cruel season. He said.
And he attempted to ignite the dead tree limbs they had collected with the old lighter he'd received as a present after returning from the war. He rallied the villagers for a time and spoke of the passage of time, the changing of the seasons and the movements of the stars. And for a time they listened.
But they continued to grow hungry, and soon they turned even on the old man named Victor.
And the season did pass, in time. And Victor was dead when the clouds broke. He was in the earth when the land warmed, but he was cold. The villagers did their best to repair the damage to their crops. It was a futile endeavor. People were starving.
They were simple people, unused to prolonged privation of the basic necessities. Victor would have shaken his head and bayed them patience. But the old man was dead, as previously mentioned.
So they started eating each other.
It continues
Today I posted a draft for "Code of Conduct" in the private place. Or last night, maybe.
It's up to about 4000 words, which makes me happy. I started working on something as a tide-over project but all momentum has ceased after 300 words or so. Listening to the Weepies. Little else to report.
It's up to about 4000 words, which makes me happy. I started working on something as a tide-over project but all momentum has ceased after 300 words or so. Listening to the Weepies. Little else to report.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Ditching School to Write
I'd never recommend this path to anyone.
But my efforts were rewarded with a 3300 word rough draft that is only going to get fatter. This one is tentatively called "Code of Conduct" and we'll see where it goes in the next few days and/or weeks.
But my efforts were rewarded with a 3300 word rough draft that is only going to get fatter. This one is tentatively called "Code of Conduct" and we'll see where it goes in the next few days and/or weeks.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Rejection and Rookie Mistakes
Just got my first rejection for "A Brief Interview with Death" (though the story has grown significantly since initial send in, I have no one to blame but myself for that) from Clarkesworld . Which is a real shame, they look like a great pub.
Then I got the advice to submit further stories in Standard Manuscript Format (SMF) . Call me an idiot, but I've never heard of this before. Le sigh.
I must be new at this.
Then I got the advice to submit further stories in Standard Manuscript Format (SMF) . Call me an idiot, but I've never heard of this before. Le sigh.
I must be new at this.
If this doesn't do it for you
When the average recruit joins the military, the expectation may or may not follow along these lines:
When in fact, this is what you get:
When in fact, this is what you get:
Halloween And Curfew Hours from U.S. Army Fort Huachuca on Vimeo.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Intoxicated crazy people writing
Here is a rough transcription of an idea I had while not operating on quite the same plane of reality as normal. Enjoy!
What if things were separated into hot and cold? Like, it's much more difficult to cool things than heat them, economically in regard to energy output into the process. So that there was this cult that believed that heating was the natural order of things, laws of thermodynamics being observed. And there was this other cult that believed cooling was better, as it was more complicated a process.
Clearly a metaphor for the (har har) Cold War.
What if things were separated into hot and cold? Like, it's much more difficult to cool things than heat them, economically in regard to energy output into the process. So that there was this cult that believed that heating was the natural order of things, laws of thermodynamics being observed. And there was this other cult that believed cooling was better, as it was more complicated a process.
Clearly a metaphor for the (har har) Cold War.
Evolved
The Weezer Snuggy.
Wow.
Just.
Wow.
Artistic integrity in this bold new future of tomorrow's dreams is all about endorsing the right product.
Epic Win.
Wow.
Just.
Wow.
Artistic integrity in this bold new future of tomorrow's dreams is all about endorsing the right product.
Epic Win.
Hurry Up, Before it's Gone!
Yeehaw!
Just pumped up Brief Interview with Death to 2500, added a bit more character development and attempted to give the thing a bit more weight. I think I have my first Clarion application story
I think that I am a proficient writer, if I may be honest, speaking from the heart, as the Macho Man Randy Savage was wont to say.
I am a proficient writer, but I am a subpar story teller. Or so I believe. I have identified a weakness, now it's time to work.
I think that I am a proficient writer, if I may be honest, speaking from the heart, as the Macho Man Randy Savage was wont to say.
I am a proficient writer, but I am a subpar story teller. Or so I believe. I have identified a weakness, now it's time to work.
Clarion, Ho!
Stop me if you've heard this one:
The Clarion workshop is beginning to take new applications starting in December. Successful application requires two 2500 or more word stories representing the best stuff you've got. And fifty bucks. Assuming acceptance it's then another four thousand plus for the program (housing provided for and not optional).
Oh good.
Clarion is, for those outside of the know the super selective (only 18 selectees!) writing workshop held at UCSD during the summer months and taught by real SF writers. There's another workshop, Clarion West in Seattle which apparently has better parties. No idea beyond what the interwebs tell me.
Looks like it's time to get to writing.
The Clarion workshop is beginning to take new applications starting in December. Successful application requires two 2500 or more word stories representing the best stuff you've got. And fifty bucks. Assuming acceptance it's then another four thousand plus for the program (housing provided for and not optional).
Oh good.
Clarion is, for those outside of the know the super selective (only 18 selectees!) writing workshop held at UCSD during the summer months and taught by real SF writers. There's another workshop, Clarion West in Seattle which apparently has better parties. No idea beyond what the interwebs tell me.
Looks like it's time to get to writing.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Reading List for November:
Well, I started with "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" by Milan Kundara. I got a gift card to Amazon for my birthday (Thanks sis) and ordered Infinite Jest and On Stranger Tides two books I have been itching to get into for some time now.
I have to say that lately I've almost felt guilty about buying new books, and unfortunately its for the most dippy liberal reasons: the fucking trees. But I had a GIFT CARD! That should say something about the depth of my concern for mother Gaia. Beyond those three I haven't put too much thought into November's reads. I should have finished Drowning Girls in China by now for class - but I think I have the gist of it, so the paper will materialize some time in the next few days - assuming the magic gnomes that do my homework show up on time.
I have to say that lately I've almost felt guilty about buying new books, and unfortunately its for the most dippy liberal reasons: the fucking trees. But I had a GIFT CARD! That should say something about the depth of my concern for mother Gaia. Beyond those three I haven't put too much thought into November's reads. I should have finished Drowning Girls in China by now for class - but I think I have the gist of it, so the paper will materialize some time in the next few days - assuming the magic gnomes that do my homework show up on time.
And they're off!
Good luck to everyone competing in nanowrimo. I hang my head and mumble maybe next year, maybe next year
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