Momma, don't let your babies grow up to be anarchists.
I suspect I've been reading too much Daily Kos lately (just from to-day, and a little Jeff Gannon update on the side.) Nevermind the amount of news I am subjected to at the dayjob. (Genocide! You're soaking in it!)
I'm sliding into cynicism fast this afternoon. Maybe if I write pointed-enough books, I can win a free trip to Syria too. What do you think?
At least I haven't got a Heinleinian "the
(The first thing we do, let's eat all the libertarians.)
Anyway, it's depressing to discover that when one intended one's protags have an even more icky political situation to deal with than one does one's self, one is having a hard time coming up with one that remains plausible and not caricature. Whatever happened to having somebody to root for? And when did I turn into John Le Carré?
Ah well. I found the second section title for the book, at least: the first half is called The mortification of the flesh and the second half is called The festival of meat. I think. Unless that changes. And the book is definitely cooking down there. Although currently it looks like the only way to get out of it may be "and then they were eaten by
It's a problem. It's also what I get for writing parables. Mm. An Utopia would be nice. Maybe I should write one of those. Except I'd keep finding cutworms in the roses.
Oddly enough, all this whinging has made me feel better.
In other news, I'll be at the Sahara Borders Books & Music in Las Vegas tonight at 8:00 PM for a book-signing/reading/hang out with the local SFF fan group thing. Come on by. I'll be the one with the enormous zit on my chin, because the perversity of the universe tends toward a maximum. (Although it's less spectacular than the one I got for Worldcon.)