Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
You ever get side-tracked in your writing progress by reading what you’ve already written in your draft (or beta), becoming bewitched by the story that’s already done?
Yeah, it’s sort of a love/hate thing, isn’t it? Love it because, hey, this is your child, and it seems pretty damn good, even if you’re the proud parent. Hate it because, damn it, I need to write more right now.
This song is one of my defacto songs that I start streaming when I’m walking. Several walking songs are plugged into my streaming library. There’s a Nancy Sinatra offering, where she sings “These boots are made for walking,” and a song less about walking but about getting there from Grand Funk, “I’m getting closer to my home,” and some song by some guy named Miller who sings, “King of the Road.” Which one pops into my stream seems dependent on my mood.
Today’s classic is offered by Edwin Starr. Here is “Twenty-five Miles,” from 1969.
Ta
I dreamed last night people were watching one of my novels from the trilogy in progress. I wasn’t certain if it was on television or at the movies. I could see and hear scenes, and see people, including me, watching them.
Conversely, after waking and thinking about it, I wondered if that was how my novel is delivered to my brain: as a movie that exists somewhere else that I’m watching and recording. I suspected that idea because some of what I saw seemed new to me. I was enjoying it and wowed.
Whichever and whatever it was, definitely time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
See you at the movies.
Don’t you hate it when you click on an internet link to read an article or post elsewhere, and there is no sign of said article or post on that page, or it’s there, but buried in a blizzard of ads, buttons, splash pages, and noise?
Yeah, WTF?
Floofpentine (catfinition) – the figure-eight winding to rub against legs and objects that cats do.
In use: “Tail up, Quinn took a floofpentine route from the room’s exit to its other end, visiting with people along the way.”
You ever step on a floof’s dinglberry that’s a quarter inch in diameter, and the only one in the room, and wonder, what are the chances of that happening in a two-hundred eighty square foot room at four in the morning?
As Sheldon would say, “We could do the math.”
