Does what it says on the label. I write things like
and sometimes things like
What's on tap here: bad dad jokes, slow posts, fiction like knives, and the occasional mushroom
A fragment of Trametes versicolor, or Turkey Tail, saprophytic on a corporate lawn.
Ray Bradbury, in "The Affluence of Despair": "In sum, we wear our hearts on our sleaze."
I'm always years behind, but these are some of the works I enjoyed that came out in 2017:
Game: Night in the Woods
Novel: Amatka, Karen Tidbeck
Graphic Novel: Monstress vol. 2, Marjorie Liu
"Clearly Lettered in a Mostly Steady Hand," Fran Wilde
"Fandom for Robots," Vina Jie-Min Prasad
"Carnival Nine," Caroline Yoachim
"The Last Meal He Ate Before She Killed Him," Malcom Devlin, You Will Grow Into Them
"Well, I was out running around the old oxbow, and I heard something, but I couldn't see clearly. It was too dark, and my sight's pretty watery. Could have been one fishy character or two, and I'm not sure of the color of their shirts, red or blue..."
What he had here, the forestry officer realized, feeling an increasing sense of despair, was a babbling brook.
"Dam it," the officer said. "Shut UP. I was just fishing for information!"
Published four short stories this year. A fifth is hiding somewhere in Rocketwerkz' game, Living Dark.
1. "The Wretched and the Beautiful," Terraform (Feb)
2. "The White-Throated Transmigrant," Tor.com (June)
3. "The View From the Top of the Stair," Hazlitt (Sep)
4. "A Quiet Night in the Library," Hellboy: An Assortment of Horrors, (Aug) (not awards-eligible, but all kinds of fun)
A peaceful end of the year to you all.
Stephen King, On Writing: "I'm looking for ways to do that [resonance] without spoon-feeding the reader or selling my birthright for a plot of message."
The conflation of wealth with happiness is sometimes so sadly pervasive in our discourse.
There are times when I want to just shake folk and shout:
"It's a lie! A big stinking lie! You don't have to play the fucking game! Happiness is not found in slips of paper! Except maybe if you're doing origami! Or papier-mâché! Papier-mâché can be fun! Or playing a game of cards with friends! But otherwise, paper slips do not equal happiness! Oh, yes, confetti is fun too! But regardless!"
Wishing you all a warm cat on a cold day
Update: Make that up to five guiros and six murders.
There's some kind of night bird outside that croaks twice like a guiro then screams about three times like a murder victim and I'd really love to know what it is
Be a good friend to yourself. No one else is guaranteed to always stay with you no matter how angry you are at them, carry your bags, like the same things you like, swear at the same things you swear at, travel with you, buy you chocolate and coffee, and be with you when you die. (Except God, but that's opt-in.)
Sand again, beautifully, in the same letter: "A few engravings after Raphael, a mat of Spanish jute to stretch out on, some good pipefuls, the clever little cat Trozzi, flowers, some well-chosen books, and above all, poetry (oh, language of the gods that I also understand but cannot speak!), isn't that enough for an artist's loft? ... Haven't we known beautiful days? Haven't we been the dutiful children of a God who blesses simple souls?"
@Sololoso These were written for public consumption, only ostensibly to each other. Sand's letters were published in the Revue des deus mondes, Liszt's in the Gazette musicale. So there's lots of dramatic flourish; she writes at the beginning of her letter, "I do not know where you are at present" even though she does know because he just ran off with his pregnant lover, Marie d'Agoult, who, uh, was already married with a kid.
"...kneeling before the gods of mud and stone for which they have abandoned the Madonna's altar and the worship of the Living God.
Perhaps you find me in a very somber mood today. For you, perhaps, the nightingale's song accompanied the transition from a delightful night to a splendid day. Perhaps you took a nap beneath the flowering lilacs and dreamed of a beautiful, golden-haired angel... As for myself... I willingly laid my artist's heart open to all the bruises of an active public life."
"He must accept these people as brothers and watch the crowd, confusing him with them, offer him the same coarse appreciation, the same childish, dazed admiration. And don't let anyone tell you that this is the suffering of injured vanity and self-esteem. No, no, you know it well, you who are so highly placed that no rival can touch you. The bitter tears that fall at times from our eyelids are those of one who, adoring the True God, sees His temple invaded by idols and the gullible populace..."
Liszt to Sand, April 1837: "Artisans everywhere, and not an *artist* to be seen. And this state of affairs also imposes cruel suffering on one who was born with the pride and fierce independence of a true son of art. All about him he sees a mob of those who manufacture art paying heed to the public's caprice, striving assiduously to gratify the fantasies of rich simpletons, and obeying the slightest whim of fashion. So eager are they to bow their heads and abase themselves...!"
Some good ideas and true observations about the creative life, but damn if he wasn't a terrible writer, at least at the age of 25—haven't gotten farther than that yet.