September 23rd, 2006

bear by san

white men, attempting to dance.

You know the old Mercer Meyer book, Just for You? Where the little furry troll child is going to do all these things for his mom, but the bed is too bouncy, the closet is too scary, and so on?

I was going to sleep in this morning, after yesterday's hard physical labor and in anticipation of today's late night. But the cat was on my pillow, and she was much too purry, and badly needed to be chin-scritched. And after half an hour of that, all sleepy had left me.

So here I am.

Let the games begin.

Before we go out tonight, I really need to slush, start reading a MS for sartorias, and do some more hard thinking. Yesterday and the day before, I got edit notes on Undertow from my editor, my agent, and katallen, who must be in collusion or something, because they have all had the book since June.

The good news is, it meets with general, enthusiastic approval. The bad news is, They all have some reservations, they're all generally right, and I Have Some Work To Do. Guess that's my project for next week, starting as soon as the rest of the manuscript arrives. So, uh, talk amongst yourselves.

Here, have some more David Bowie. (You know how all artists start off with pastiche? This one made me feel better, because he really can't decide if he's pastiching Mick Jagger or Elvis, and the result is a bit unholy.

(It makes me want to pat him on the head and tell him that he just needs to go ahead and embrace his inner spaz and everything will be fine. And now I want to know exactly how much of GenX's conviction that spaz = sexy can be traced directly to Bowie and David Byrne....

(Oh, you know that primary-kinesthetic thing I'm always on about? Yes, I really do spend most of my life paying this much attention to people's body language. Don't ask me their faces look like, though, or their hair colors. I, er, tend not to notice.

(Fortunately, I'm a GenXer, so I can fool myself that my own spasticity is sexy, too.)
bear by san

when fannish obsessions collide

Never noticed this one before: *

But what are kings, when regiment is gone,
But perfect shadows in a sunshine day?

--Christopher Marlowe: The Tragedy of Edward the Second, Act V, Scene I

Woke up this morning to look at things in their funny way.
Why can't they be like they used to be only yesterday.
Ooh --- bring back my sunshine day.

I look at things that once were mine with such despair.
Why do the things I say only fall on empty air?
Ooh --- bring back my sunshine day.
My mind cries: bring back my sunshine day.

I say the things I used to say, but they don't seem right.
Why does this world seem like the darkest endless night?
Ooh --- bring back my sunshine day.
Bring back my sunshine day.

--Jethro Toe, Sunshine Day

I am blaming this entry on angevin2 and commodorified.
bear by san

I have embraced my inner Sir Percy Blakeney.

My answer to all unanswerable questions, and some of the answerable ones, shall henceforth be "La."

Thereby, you shall know that I am Up To Something. But not, perhaps, that I am the Scarlet Pimpernel.

And thus, some reviews. La.

System of a Braun thinks that, with B&I, I am pursuing an entirely wrong direction! With wrongness! And wrong!

But sam_t says I'm fast-paced and inventive. Or at least my books are.

And there are a selection of mostly positive reviews of B&I up at Amazon.

One of the most weird and wonderful things about this art thing is watching people react to what you made. Especially when what they describe is not at all the art one remembers creating. Sometimes, I can recognize the book under discussion as one that, you know, somebody else might have written given the same material.

What's odd is that this happens just about as often with good reviews as with bad.


Lord, the internet is boring today. Where are you all?
phil ochs troubador

While the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face--

I'm three Steel Rail Extra Pale Ales and an Irish coffee better off than I was at 6 pm, so have a little pity if I don't type so good tonight.

I just got back from the Chris Smither show at the Iron Horse, where I was joined by caulay, ahf, nihilistic_kid, ashacat, and buymeaclue. And unless they were lying to me, a good time was had by all.

There was no opening act; Smither brought David "Goody" Goodrich along as his guitarist, and there was some nice bottlenecking, now and again, along with an assortment of weird guitars, including a Dobro or something much like one.

They did a very nice job indeed. At times, actually, I felt like I was intruding, because the musicians were getting so wrapped up in their music that they'd seem a little startled when they noticed they had an audience.

Smither, if you don't know, plays a particular kind of sharp, wry, snappy, mostly acoustic blues that makes me very happy.

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Good show.

Smither's hair is so black it's kind of creepy-looking.