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bear by san

March 2017

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writing dust bible 'house of dust"

in your head in your head they're quite dead in your head

Welp, I have done my hundred pages of penance, twiddled "Skull Ring" some more (as soon as my printer is back from netcurmudgeon's shop at the North Pole, I will print out it and "Shoggoths in Bloom" and send them off, respectively, to F&SF and Asimov's to begin collecting their requisite quota of rejections) and played guitar for an hour or so, which means I am free to spend the rest of my Saturday as I see fit. Which, given that it's in the 90s out there, is going to mean huddling in my apartment with the shades drawn reading a book. I suppose I could drive up to the Whole Paycheck and buy some Midas Touch and milk (PLOM* is coming along well enough that I am allowed the occasional beer again, yay), because I am not walking nearly four miles in this weather, but you know what? I don't want a beer that badly.

And I am feeling hibernatory and overpeopled, which is always a pretty good sign that it's time for a couple of days of under-my-rock time.

I have personal commitments tomorrow, so it looks like I am going to have to do the last hundred pages of the Dust CEM on Monday, after the gym and my trip to the massage therapist. At least Eunice the little red truck that (mostly) could is home from the garage, the problem having been diagnosed (torn vacuum hose) and treated for under a hundred dollars, including oil change. I got off light that time, she said, fingers crossed. (She'll be 18 as soon as the new model year comes out; the goal is to make it to twenty. Unless I wind up doing something dumb like buying a house in here somewhere, in which case the goal may be to keep it running for as long as I possibly can. :-P Ah, the glamourous highly-paid life of the writer.)

Dust has a lot of climax. I have a hundred pages to go, and it's already ramping up, bigtime. I hope that's a good sign.

In other news, I may finally be starting to internalize strum patterns. And the Cranberries "Zombie" is the easiest song this side of "Horse With No Name," which is not only designed to be plyed stoned off your ass, it has lyrics you can only get through without losing it all over the floor if you are so wasted you forget to think about what they mean. You know, I have got to work harder on my Dmajor. It sounds like crap.

(Ordinary people, who had been playing guitar for a year, would probably be able to play a Dmaj that does not sound like crap by now. Not me!)

Now, I'm gonna have me a sammich and a nap, and then read some more books. And maybe do some math.


*Project Less of Me. Also knows as "Project fit in these twenty pairs of pants that used to fit, because I am way too cheap to buy more while I still haven't worn these out." Another five pounds or so and I should be into the first tier of them. *\o/*)

Comments

Re: DUDE IGGY POP SINGS "ONE FOR MY BABY" STRAIGHT

Ow. Do you have to shout?

*g*

And aren't you supposed to be writing a novel?
I too am reading Dust. No where near the place where you are in the book.

I am on page 131 and things are heating up.