I have an old story, called WOLVES, that I’ve been trying to write for ages. And when I say ages, I mean, since almost the dawn of time. I’ve posted about it before, started and written and re-written and come back. It’s about a future-dystopia, small town diner, and a pack of werewolves that come into town to take over. But the diner wins. I know this. It’s kind of weird and marginally experimental, and not weird enough even by half, which is why I suspect I haven’t finished it yet. But I want to.
I’m writing a micro piece, more for the difficult-ness of it, for Apex Magazine’s micro-fiction contest. I read something that amused me on the internet, but now I have to make it real, and also make it fit and also make it under 250 words. I’m amused. My writing style doesn’t necessarily translate into micro fiction, because lo’ do I like a word followed by a word followed by a word.
I have a good thing to share when it can be shared. I have to be clandestine, as that was the request, so I will be, and ask that you respect that as well. I will share for really-real when I’m able :) I’m also embedding this vagueblogging in the middle of two paragraphs so that when you skim, you will miss it.
Joseph Fink (our Nightvale Radio friend) tweeted about “fake sleeper girls”, and now I want to know who they are, what they do. How they wear their eye liner, if they have youtube videos that show them how to achieve the perfect winged line. It’s now on the list of things to find out.
It’s something, anyway. Do you ever read a line of text, hear a string of words and feel the sound of it in your bones? It’s not just comprehension; it’s a fleeting, biological change at a molecular level. This is a thing I’m not sure we all share. I want to ask people. Strangers, people I have conversations with. “If you read a word do you feel it in your body. Does it change who you are, even just for a microsecond. Are you someone else for the smallest of moments, a person outside of a person?”
I was reading COVENANT, a story by Elizabeth Bear and this sentence:
I’ll have to take what I can find for myself. I’ve sunk into that beautiful quiet place where there’s just the movement, the sky, that true, irreproducible blue, the brilliant flicker of a cardinal. Where I die as a noun and only the verb survives.
When we die as a noun. That precisely describes the feeling.
Gingerbread, working title, is coming along nicely. I realized a thing about a thing. A vial of blood, genetics. The taste of it, what it will mean to a father who is missing his son. The middle muddle, Holmes and Watson, how Watson points things out, but now the conversation that occurs at the main house makes way more sense.
I need a faster subconscious.