January 2003

Afternoon off. Used bookstore in town called “Author Author,” run by two women writers. They had Bridge of Birds and Eight Skilled Gentlemen by Barry Hughart. “Barry Hughart,” one of them said. “Any good? ‘A novel of an ancient China that never was.’” I was dumbfounded for about three or four seconds. What do you […]

The Writing. So a couple of good ideas came my way. The ones I’m using: A laptop fund jar — don’t write, a dollar out. Write, a dollar an hour. Write before bedtime. Get mucho help from spouse if bebe is still up. Result: progressing at the average rate of a page a day, as

Dream. So I’m wandering through this museum looking for someone. The harder I look, the harder it becomes to look, and the more I need to find this person, until I’m walking on a hanging bridge about a foot wide without handholds, and whoever it is I’m looking for (I don’t know) is going to

Saga of the Weight Bench. Once upon a time, there was a man who lost the bar to his weights. God knows where it went; probably it disappeared during his recent move across town. Possibly the bar was abducted by aliens, who unsuccessfully attempted to get ransom from the new residents of the apartment, who

Kiwi-birds and Hobbits. New Zealand, if you didn’t know, is where they filmed The Lord of the Rings. SCA, if you didn’t know, is the Society of Creative Anachronisms, a group of like-minded folks who try to recreate the more tasteful parts of the middle ages (not enough shit for accuracy). I have a friend

Brain Yoga. Not only is philosophy a comfort through the vissictitudes (did I spell that right?) of life, but it’s also…Brain Yoga!!! I should design a Discovery Store package. But no Plato. I hate that m@#@&&$%. Sure, one side of his mouth is all about platonic friendships, but you check ou the other side of

What if…? Short story ideas suck right now. Hey. Why does my brain flood with these things now, when I’m trying to write a freakin’ novel? Hm…that might make a decent short story, actually.

The Smoking Project. So every day Lee makes it through without smoking, he puts three bucks in a jar to go towards computer equipment. (I wonder if I could do that with writing? Well, sure. But–?) And every day I ask him: How did you do today? If he made it, I’ll say, “Thank you.”

Heh. All ye English majors, check out the Tolkein parodies here. Here’s an example: Eowyn felt her heart flutter when she saw him. His raven hair flew in the breeze off the plain, and his piercing eyes caught her gaze as if by magic. He bore a kingly attitude; surely he was a prince. Her

Down with the…bloooork! Lee had food poisoning over New Year’s. Well. Turns out it’s not food poisoning if your daughter has it, too, and she wasn’t with you at the all-mite Nexican place. There are actually a couple of clean blankets left. No pillows, no sheets, but one lovely (and mostly naked) daughter who feels