One of an endless series of notes I find in my phone, usually scribbled while in the line for coffee or walking home at night. Copied as-is.
Something from Sparks (THAT old chestnut). I kind of want to go back to regular blogging, but this is so much easier when I’m warm and lazy and post-work sleepy, sitting here with my cat and a glass of wine and season 3 of Buffy (to which, it turns out, I still know all the words).
Here’s some more After. The last scene was a version of the first one I wrote for Scout and Kit — this is the first one I ever wrote for Jamie and Lucas. I wrote this so long ago I have no perspective on it whatsoever — so long ago, in fact, that my cat is named after the character and not the other way around.
(Feel free to give me feedback on which of these word-worlds you like more. I’m feckless and easily swayed.)
It’s been one of those weeks. Sixtyproof got a new client (woo!) that came with an urgent weekend job (decidedly less woo). I had meetings and appointments all over town. My social life melted into a gelatinous slurry of cancelled plans and unanswered calls.
The good thing about this project is it’s forcing me to just get stuff out there — whatever I’ve done, in whatever form it’s in. The bad thing is that this week, I’ve done basically nothing. Everything I’ve written has been for someone else, except for one little thing that isn’t anything yet… but might be soon, so I’m keeping it to myself until it is.
I’m @PeopleofNZ this week, to add to the chaos. Today I asked the general population to write me Twitter-length horror stories. It was… kind of awesome.
I am not supposed to be writing this, you guys! And yet. And yet.
Sailor was thinking about being a princess, the sun pooled like treacle on the tip of her nose and the tops of her knees. She wouldn’t be a wussy princess. She’d fight with swords in wars and all the warriors would want to kiss her — but she’d be the kind of princess who’d laugh at them and challenge them to duels. She’d have dresses and servants to do her hair, and they’d eat chicken every day. Hot and greasy, with their fingers.
So, friend and code magician Chris made this thing yesterday:
It makes poems out of interactive fiction, and I dig everything about it. I dig what it creates and what it uses to create it. I especially dig that the poem emerges from the places the robots meet. I find that oddly romantic. Robot romance? I SAID IT. They’re crawling around in that tangle of words, spitting poetry like sparks whenever they collide. (See? ROMANTIC.)
I’m very into this.
I retweeted this blog post yesterday. You should read it.
I think about this stuff a lot. I’m pretty vocal about my feminism, and popular media is one of my great bugbears. But, as a writer, even I have to remember to consciously check my biases. I write fictional words that are dark and difficult, and my instinct is to populate them with men.
Here’s the end of that same scene from AFTER, because some of you asked for it — and because I lost tonight writing a post on gender in media that I need someone to sanity check for me tomorrow. Just you wait!