See, the crap that's been going on around here is the reason I'm afraid to express myself openly on the Internets. 

A logician is used to arranging delimiters as befits the order they represent.  Likewise a software engineer.  Quote marks enclose the quoted text.  A comma separates the quote-mark-enclosed quoted text from other elements of the statement.  

O, Fate, please tell me it was part of Your plan to leave me fallow so long.  I faithfully await my return to Your service.  O, and could You stop being such a Bitch?  Seriously.

For the first time in months, my slush count is greater than zero.  Am celebrating with a cup of good tea. 

Every writer, every once in a while, must stop, take a good look around, and ask him- or herself, "Why am I in the kitchen?" 

You can't write plausible near-future sci-fi any more.  The writing and publishing process are so slow, and the pace of technology so fast, that any idea a writer can come up with is more likely to be old news than futurism by the time it sees print.

Of course, while I was typing that, I'll bet a new technology development occurred which will change all that.

Oh, crap!  That means I'd better go find it, and learn how to use it!

Oh, crap!  By the time I do that, it'll have been replaced!  I'd better intuit its most likely third- or fourth-generation successor, guess how it will work, and start practicing with that now in hopes that during the first few instants after it becomes feasible, I'm already an expert at it.

Oh, crap!  That'll put me behind the curve, won't it?  I'd better figure out what will be the next thing after the fifth-generation successor becomes passe, and use that, before it exists, to figure out what will follow it.

Aaiigh!  It took me too long to type that! 

Randall Munroe, the author of xkcd, apparently sick of financial news, put up a goofy short story on his blog.  An excerpt: 

"Bernanke, trying not to slip in the patches of blood on the floor, struggled with Greenspan. The older man moved like a snake that moved like a former Fed Chairman who moved like a ninja. At last, Bernanke got a solid grip on Greenspan’s collar and hurled him through the fourth wall, knocking you to the ground." 

I'm still wheezing.  $%#& hilarious. 

Can't wait for the novel. 

No document can contain the tortured writhings of a human soul.  Writers are all trying desperately to do that, but what of it?  Can any of them succeed?  Does the degree to which they succeed determine their level of skill?  Even if one could encode it, could anyone receive it? 

The one thing that gives me the most hope right now is that I am actually in compliance with Yog's first imperative:  Write Every Day.  I do.  I write every day.  Every morning I start a new datestamped scratch document in Google Docs, and periodically throughout the day, through whatever browser is handy, I squeeze my head out onto the page.  And stuff comes out.  Reams and reams of stuff. 

It's the screaming poetry of madness, mostly.  So I'm not sure what to do with it. 

Sometimes I post bits of it here or on Salt Trick. 

Other than that, nobody but me reads it. 

But I write every day. 

Delerium Archives are different stuff than recent Delerium.  I like 'em both, but they're for different things.  

If I recall correctly, Edgar Rice Burroughs made it explicitly clear when introducing Dejah Thoris that she didn't wear any clothing. 

How racy is that? 

I've been looking over my recent posts both here and on Salt Trick, and I think they've been kind of incoherent lately.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe I need to enforce a fermentation period between composing and posting.  

MIKA did a cover of Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" last year sometime.  It played as we drove in to work today.  It's been bouncing around in my head all morning, knocking loose visions. 

I want to stick it into the head of another creative person and see what happens, see if that person gets the same effect I do. 

It's in iTunes, I think.  I'd just plunk down the few bucks to gift it to my friends, but the mechanisms that iTunes requires the giftee to work with are way too awkward.  The experience I want to deliver is that the giftee finds it in his or her inbox, clicks on it, and hears the song.  But, no, iTunes needs the giftee to have an account, and sign in, and listen using an authorized program or device, blah blah blah...  Not the same.  And it's not a technical problem, it's a legal one.  Engineering as dictated by lawyers.  Can we go back to engineers doing the engineering and lawyers doing the lawyering?  That worked better. 

Anyway.  MIKA.  Generally I dislike covers.  Generally I dislike live versions.  This is both.  I give it a free pass.  Love them 'lectric guitars. 

Readeroverwriterloaderconnerboobercoverleader^Hshdcfh

Unexpected error.  Please try again later. 

'Cause buds'll kick you in the ass when you need it. 
I hear, O buds, and I obey. 

A new story, just over a thousand words.  Written just now.  In Google Docs.  Just to prove to myself that I could.  Inspired by the disturbing speck of dark stuff embedded in the lid of the disposable tea cup I'm drinking from. 

Yet another in a long line of my stories where nothing happens, but I don't care. 

Next:  Revise.  Submit.  Repeat. 

I think I'll try Lady Churchill's with this one. 

I haven't written anything new since Flutter By.  I can't remember how many months ago that was. 

My slush count is currently zero. 

If this turns out to have been a momentary pause, while I took stock and found my voice, then no worries. 

But if it lasts, it is very very bad. 

Via matociquala (who may have no idea who the hell I am, and for that I apologize;*  eventually I go fanboy on everybody.): 

"If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now,even if we don't speak often, please post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want -- good or bad. When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people remember about you."

<confession>You know, I'm really only doing this because I have this deep tiny fear in my heart that everyone has forgotten me, and because right beside it there's a deep tiny hope that they haven't.</confession> 

BTW, I remember you.  Yeah, you. 

* FYI, my real name's on my profile. I have daydreams:  BAD GUY:  "Isn't that right, Hysteresis Monkey?  Ha ha!  Never thought I'd connect you with your anonymous blog, did you?"  ME:  "Dude, my real name's right on my LJ profile.  Right there.  No, click on that one.  Yeah.  See?  You're such a nimrod." 

Today, I finished Little Brother. 

I keep worrying about having it in my possession.  I don't want to be caught with subversive literature. 

When I read others' work, I should keep in mind where they were in their careers, and where I am in my career, and not despair. 

This morning, I finished Dust.