Oscar dresses. I often wonder if it's politics or preference that prevails. Politenessness/impolitic-to-say-no would explain some of the choices, but jesus there was some sartorial fuckery happening last night. Oprah had me bracing for some sort of 1000-psi spanx failure and as a member of the mighty titty committee myself, all I could feel upon gazing at her image was breathlessness, tachycardia and epic underboob sweat. That's better than looking hungry, plastic and desperate as per 80% of her peers, so... err... yeah. The Oscars don't look like something I'd roll out of bed for personally, but if pressed I'd throw on something bloat-friendly and as much fucking jewellery as I could physically shift down the carpet; it was good enough for Liz Taylor. You know that bitch had herself some times.
Are you reading the Book serialization? (yes, I spell it with a fucking z.) Warning; if you like your stories bareback, you might want to skip these remarks.
Okay? Mmmokay. The last excerpt always makes me hungry, dammit. And slightly dickmatized, because I fucking love Gideon. Auberjonois stepped quite prefabbed from the protean slop so I presume my massed Crusade research was most responsible for his genesis. He emerged as a character quite early on in the compositional process since I knew there was no way Sachiin would have gotten through the last two and a half millennia without at least two flavours of significant other. More of him in the next book.
Some time after his properties were set, my partner read me a short fiction piece by Gerald Durrell (The Entrance- do have a look for it because it's well worth the effort) featuring a lead with some rather eerie similarities and- more dismayingly- the same first name. If you write, you'll know the sharp kick to the creative taint this invariably administers. What do you do? Bin a promising character? Give them a painful, horribly arbitrary makeover? Shit like that can keep you awake at night, but I decided no on both counts. After all, there is truly nothing new under the sun (making it past 30 should teach you this the hard way). Also, originality is entirely relative in my humble opinion and any similarities were innocent, since I was unfamiliar with Durrell's rather obscure story. And paranoia aside, which imaginated creature is really enough like another to warrant this kind of scorched-earth foolishness? We are all just versions of each other anyway, hazy xeroxed collages of our neighbouring organisms and cardinal influences. So Gideon stands just as he came to me, with the moon in his heart and one eye on the door.
Are you reading the Book serialization? (yes, I spell it with a fucking z.) Warning; if you like your stories bareback, you might want to skip these remarks.
Okay? Mmmokay. The last excerpt always makes me hungry, dammit. And slightly dickmatized, because I fucking love Gideon. Auberjonois stepped quite prefabbed from the protean slop so I presume my massed Crusade research was most responsible for his genesis. He emerged as a character quite early on in the compositional process since I knew there was no way Sachiin would have gotten through the last two and a half millennia without at least two flavours of significant other. More of him in the next book.
Some time after his properties were set, my partner read me a short fiction piece by Gerald Durrell (The Entrance- do have a look for it because it's well worth the effort) featuring a lead with some rather eerie similarities and- more dismayingly- the same first name. If you write, you'll know the sharp kick to the creative taint this invariably administers. What do you do? Bin a promising character? Give them a painful, horribly arbitrary makeover? Shit like that can keep you awake at night, but I decided no on both counts. After all, there is truly nothing new under the sun (making it past 30 should teach you this the hard way). Also, originality is entirely relative in my humble opinion and any similarities were innocent, since I was unfamiliar with Durrell's rather obscure story. And paranoia aside, which imaginated creature is really enough like another to warrant this kind of scorched-earth foolishness? We are all just versions of each other anyway, hazy xeroxed collages of our neighbouring organisms and cardinal influences. So Gideon stands just as he came to me, with the moon in his heart and one eye on the door.
TMI? Should I be telling you this stuff? Does it fuck with your suspension of disbelief? Is sus of dis even a thing anymore, now that online gutspilling has pretty much abolished any figurative fupa-veiling fragment of mystery writers might have cherished? With all things considered, I think such commentary probably is selfish in that it must interfere with the traditional joys of untrammelled discovery and private relation, so rest assured I won't over-overshare.
This week in blogging: the woodpile is sorted and we've been watching so many bloody movies; the stack of review notes is nudging the historic ceiling spiderwebs, so I'll need another week to sort those out. There'll be a lipstick review, I think, because I've discovered a promising black one and that shit doesn't happen every day, right kids? And something about bees, because there's no reason not to.
Let's have some Cure. Bob the bossy bottom. In late summer this video always reminds me of our own place here in Port, since it's on a cliff overlooking the sea and is leafy and has levels and stone walls and... um cicadas. Sadly no wrought iron or glazed conservatories or sighing hirsute minstrels or semihollows or any other gracious amenities.
Our toilet is inside, well... inside an illegal addition. Lol- Victoriana. Is ivy an amenity? We have shitloads of that.
This week in blogging: the woodpile is sorted and we've been watching so many bloody movies; the stack of review notes is nudging the historic ceiling spiderwebs, so I'll need another week to sort those out. There'll be a lipstick review, I think, because I've discovered a promising black one and that shit doesn't happen every day, right kids? And something about bees, because there's no reason not to.
Let's have some Cure. Bob the bossy bottom. In late summer this video always reminds me of our own place here in Port, since it's on a cliff overlooking the sea and is leafy and has levels and stone walls and... um cicadas. Sadly no wrought iron or glazed conservatories or sighing hirsute minstrels or semihollows or any other gracious amenities.
Our toilet is inside, well... inside an illegal addition. Lol- Victoriana. Is ivy an amenity? We have shitloads of that.
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