Last week, when I ceased to exist here, I listened to an item on CBC Radio about a recent documentary on the topic of Flat Earthers (or, as one who is not in their camp has called them, “Globe Deniers”) and I thought Oh, damn it. They’re getting into the main stream.
About three years ago, I looked at a Flat Earth discussion forum for a half-hour. I was dizzy all day. It’s an… interesting… way of approaching the physical world. Anyway, for today’s entertainment, here’s a look at these strange people that you won’t have to pay to see, and which I find amusing. I will warn you, though, there’s some language in it.
Today’s pen, of sufficient density to sink in air: Pelikan M20
Today’s ink, which YOU CAN’T PROVE HOW IT’S MADE: Lamy blue-black
EDIT!! I’ve just realized it’s Dwight Frye’s birthday!
The output for this week is pretty good, given a Tuesday on which I was called away during writing hour and a Thursday when I am wriggling in the grip of stomach flu/food poisoning/unexpected necromantic curse. If I’d had any warning yesterday, I’d have brought the thing home so I could work on it. But no.
I got essentially no writing at all done yesterday, as I was returning a couple of pen… well, not to the owners, but to Paper Umbrella, where the owners had left them for me to collect; a very obliging shop, that.
Today’s film appears entirely because it happened to pop up on one of the lines of social media I wander through, and it gave me both a laugh and a comfortable shiver of horror. It’s a little raucous, so you may want to turn the volume down before you start.
How did I miss this until now? Probably because I’m ancient and the last time I made a point of watching music videos was about the time Star Trek: The Next Generation was getting over its teething troubles.
As a small indication of the sort of time I’ve been enjoying the last couple of weeks; I only just now noticed that the thing I had meant to post last Friday… isn’t. Isn’t up. Isn’t around. Isn’t available. I put the effort into writing one, but there is no trace of it whatsoever. This gives me a slight headstart on tomorrow, since I have a memory of what it was, but to not have noticed at all AND to have it vanish is disconcerting.
I will not put this down to the Mandela effect, as much fun as side-slipping through the multiverse might be, but simply to my own stress-cracked brain. To address this issue, I’m taking next week off from The Regular Job. This may see a dose of writing done, since my son will be in school and he’s the main impediment to writing at home (I love him, and he loves me; his manifests as “you must watch this Annoying Orange video with me again” and mine manifests as submission to that insistence). However, I may also just sleep for 127 hours without a break, too. We’ll see how that works out.
One of the minor positive elements to not having sold the novel to anyone yet, nor secured an agent; no deadline.
You might think, with that relatively high word count, I’d be a happy fellow.
Hey, look, I’m using foreshadowing, like a writer.
It has, by most other metrics, been a fairly abominable week… and a bit. I’m not going to share the whole sad yarn, but one form of woe which came to the house lately I will offer here, because it’s a kind which I have shared previously. We have lost yet another cat. This time, at least, it’s a loss which we saw coming, because unlike so many of the others, this chap lived to the sort of age we expect a cat to last to. He was the child of she who passed from us eight years back (good heavens, but haven’t I been at this while?), and was creeping stealthily toward his nineteenth birthday. Alas, like so many desirable prey will, it seems to have noticed him stalking it, and fled away.
He made a pretty good hunt of it, though. Farewell to Oberon, then.
And because he was adopted by the wrong sort of people, his full name was Oberon Kenobi.
Our sole survivor, Hercule, is as bereft as you might expect from looking at this. Once we’ve cleaned up the place a little, we’ll be seeking new companions for him.
I did not attend my usual Friday lunch, because I have not made enough words this week. Ain’t I a good boy? Still, contemplating the speed of output over the past couple of weeks, I find I’m embarrassed at how slowly things are going. For the sake of comparison…
Watching this little film, consider the key-travel, and the weight required to work the mechanism of each letter. Not only were these women blazingly quick at typing, I have no doubt the muscles required for it make them deadly grappling menaces. No asking for help opening a jar for them!
Some real excitement here, which may have affected my rate of production. First, there is a signed contract in place now, so I can reveal that “Free Balloons for All Good Children” was bought by Pseudopod, and that it is at least tentatively scheduled to appear there in the latter part of April. I will of course be adding links to the story itself once it appears, in addition to yelling from rooftops and possibly breaking into your house to make sure you’ve had a look at it. Yes, you.
The other item that has set me all a-bubble is a second note of acceptance, this time on “Without Fear, Favour or Affection,” which some who persist in following this low-impact content of mine may remember I took a hiatus from the novel about this time last year to work up. It will be going into an anthology, about which I will reveal more as matters the phase state of the arrangement moves closer to solid. But I am giddy on the current liquid-approaching-slurry, I assure you.
Cripes. I can actually start to wear the mantle of professional author.
Another subpar week; this is not down to the old-style entry I indulged in on Tuesday, but stems from having to rearrange some plot elements convincingly and from today’s visit by Mr. Throbbing Migraine. Fun.
It’s also the reason this appear HOURS later than usual.
What's up at Ravens March. 