Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Saturday, July 27, 2013
"Time was they would be older and wait for me." The unicorn's horn fades slowly from view as it draws up the seeming of a horse around itself again. "Men, women: it would not matter. They would see my purity and it would be a sign their own could end. And now I hide on roads without names or desires lest I be hunted down and turned into aphrodisiacs."into
"Time was they would be older and wait for me." The unicorn's horn fades slowly from view as it draws up the seeming of a horse around itself again. "Men, women: it would not matter. They would see my purity and it would be a sign their own could end. And now I hide on roads without names or desires lest I be hunted down and used."via a friend's comment on the line. The story in the series was written for a prompt, but I am tempted to make it canon in the series that most of the monsters are extinct or hiding because of being turned into aphrodisiacs and the like.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Once this draft is finished, it's going to be working on the edit of Ghoulish Happenings (with breaks to work on the Magician Series of stories but nothing more) until I get the novel working properly. At which point I will continue my re-write of the sequel, which is going to be fun since I pared down over half the plots and characters and plan to center on the one character getting his appendix out, which is so deliciously normal it'll be great fun to write.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Sunday, July 14, 2013
All of which gets me wondering about children's fiction and how it shouldn't age well. The genre is written to entertain children and what children like alters from decade to decade, often depending on what adults believe the children want, marketing and so forth. I imagine most children's stories of this era that class as pop culture would fare as poorly in the future.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
I am pantsing this story, so that shall be my excuse :) Now off to redo 9 pages....
Friday, July 12, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Tuesday, July 09, 2013
Monday, July 08, 2013
The genius of the characters is that their colour remains both evocative and without purpose: why Purple and Orange facing each other? Why Green and Red? Obvious connections to the royal purple and the orange of William III (aka William of Orange) linking with the containment of France has obvious historical connotations, the game can also be seen as offering questions regarding gender and marriage in the world of tetris: what pieces fit together? What ones can’t? Is the square always doomed to be a square in actuality as well as symbology? Case in point, “No one ever considers rotating the square piece. Its development is completely overlooked." (Kentari, 2013.)
The other pieces, in rotating, gain a provenance and popularity the square lacks, as clear comment on hetero-normative culture as one could expect. The origin stories of the character vary from game to game, as the piece that arrives first is clearly the first born, followed by others in descending order. If two matching pieces (S,Z or the two sideways Ls) arrive first, tradition considers them a married couple and the pieces that come after to be their children, a fact seldom borne out by how the game often progressive. “The fact that square comes in upside down says a lot about his origins. No one ever notices that," (Chaos, 2013) is also a factor in the squares diminished appeal. That the more popular rectangle has more effect in clearly the board clearly says much about their relationship though the game often leaves it unexplored.
The game creators seem to take little note of the popularity of the characters, though some believe the algorithm determining character advancement and appearance has changed over the years to reflect a changing culture. Some call it a dumbing down of the inherent complexity of a game that forces you to play all the characters as inherently equal despite obviously limits several of them espouse. The extent to which this can be seem as enabling (or disabling) varies from review to review, some arguing that the inclusion of certain pieces – far from (en)forcing gender stereotypes – is clearly indicative of rights for the disabled, or at least the less advantaged pieces. The creators have been strident in their disavowal of such claims, much as the racist and cultural claiming linking the red square to Tiananmen Square were disavowed in the 1990s.
What remains clear is that the advancement of the characters – both as symbols and as more than symbological mythology – owes much to the lens through which they are viewed, much as what each is capable of shifts as the pieces themselves are changed to fit the board. It may be that the pieces are just themselves, changing to match needs even as we ourselves present different faces to the world depending on social situations and how much alcohol we have consumed.
Saturday, July 06, 2013
Friday, July 05, 2013
We found it under the apple tree in Jake Wilson’s yard. The apple tree is maggot-grey, twisted white whorls in it looking like veins, a piece of winter in the middle of a summer day.
"Huh?" Charlie looks over from it warily. "You sound surprised. You never do that."
"I'm a magician. We're not allowed." I step back, considering the tree. "What do you see?"
"A tree. No apples, but it is an apple tree. It smells wrong. Not rotten, but wrong. Does that make sense?"
Charlie has a god inside her, which is why Jake Wilson trusted her. Anyone who eats a monster in a closet is trustworthy to a little boy it seems, so he told her about the weird apple tree and asked her to eat it. She didn't have it in her to say she couldn't so waited until I got up and dragged me to the Wilson's house.
That the tree had hidden itself until I touched it was impressive: someone had cared about it until their passion twisted inward into something else. I kneel and brush my hands over the crab grass surrounding it, memories seeping up out of the earth like forgotten sins. A boy praying for his mother, burying a box of pirate treasure under the apple tree. Somewhere in his head pirates became tooth fairies you gave money to and they fixed things. Only they didn't, or at least not this time.
He found the box after his mom died, cut through roots with a shovel and pulled it out. That the cardboard had survived weeks under the earth was lost to him: he threw it all in a fire and left a dead dream to fester under the earth, a shame so deep it hid itself even to a magician's eyes.
"His prayers were not enough." My voice isn't quite steady as I stand. I can't do anything for the past, and no ghosts stand tethered by grief to the tree. A small mercy. I look over at the house, where Jake is staring wide-eyed from a bedroom window. Like Charlie, he knows it is wrong without knowing why.
I reach inside and pull up a memory of my sister and I: our first time eating out anywhere fancy, us being all confused when mom said we didn't have to take our dishes to any sink. I press the memory into the tree, feel it become a shadow of a shadow inside me, pull the hurt from under the tree out. It is colourless but feels like dead jello in my hands. I whisper a binding and shove it into a pocket to dispose of.
"It should bloom next year." I leave it to Charlie to explain things to Jake and walk away, fingering the shape in my pocket and wondering what kind of dream I'll need to kill with it some day.
2. Hemingway was fucking wrong. You shouldn’t write drunk. (See my third novel for details.)
3. Hemingway was also right. ‘The first draft of everything is shit.’
4. Never ask a publisher or agent what they are looking for. The best ones, if they are honest, don’t have a fucking clue, because the best books are the ones that seemingly come from nowhere.
5. In five years time the semi-colon is going to be nothing more than a fucking wink.
6. In five years time every fucking person on Twitter will be a writer.
7. Ignore the fucking snobs. Write that space zombie sex opera. Just give it some fucking soul.
8. If it’s not worth fucking reading, it’s not worth fucking writing. If it doesn’t make people laugh or cry or blow their fucking minds then why bother?
9. Don’t be the next Stephen King or the next Zadie Smith or the next Neil Gaiman or the next Jonathan Safran fucking Foer. Be the next fucking you.
10. Stories are fucking easy. PLOT OF EVERY BOOK EVER: Someone is looking for something. COMMERCIAL VERSION: They find it. LITERARY VERSION: They don’t find it. (That’s fucking it.)
11. No-one knows anything. Especially fucking me. Except:
12. Don’t kill off the fucking dog.
13. Oh, yeah, and lastly: write whatever you fucking want
- Matt Haig, "Some Fucking Writing Tips"
Thursday, July 04, 2013
Tuesday, July 02, 2013
- an artist's suicide note.
The NSA knows. If my mind was my search history
on the net, I would be screwed.
(This has been an almost topical post.)
Loved I not tax breaks more.
The question haunted him as he loaded his second gun. It had never been rhetorical, not rhetorical at all.
What I read: Obama, Puffin face tough talks on Syria
Because the future is all new things: chances, hopes, wishes, dreams. And, prosaically, there are books never read, TV shows never seen and friends unmet. The past is solid, the future fluid.
a poem about flushing pizza down a toilet.
... I am going to EARN that Pulitzer.
Murder is a lot less terrifying than a small, patient albino elf who finds you when sleeping and then harvests one of your kidneys and leaves no memory or pain, just a small little scar you don't remember getting - then finding out at your next physical that you're missing a kidney