A break in the levee, one hopes.

By God, I managed to write nearly three thousand words yesterday, and the story is still going strong. That’s rare, that is, and needs to be habit instead.

I haven’t written anything in forever, and apparently I am making up for it in one fell stumble. I wrote 2597 words on a piece tentatively entitled Howl, which is a bizarre steampunky sort of thing that I first dreamt and then couldn’t quit thinking about until I wrote it down. I thought it wanted to be a short story but it’s still going and it’s only just started.

I also scribbled 219 words on a horrifying little piece of Poe-esquetry while I was at work last night, beginning in the middle of the story and going somewhere dreadful.

Oh, goody. :D

 

For a given definition of whimsical…

I have a bad habit of commenting on poor Jeff VanderMeer’s blog entries. (It won me a stack of fantastic books, once, which startled me more than a little.) The following, tangentially related to my last post, resulted from that habit. I’ve cross-posted it here from his blogpost, just because it’s the sort of crap I want to be able to look back on in a few years, turn slightly green and mutter ‘oh dear God what was I thinking’ over.

(Furthermore, as of moment of going to press, it’s moderated, and god knows if it’ll actually end up publicly posted. xD)

It was written on a whim, which makes it, by definition, whimsical. Er.

My hobby has been called by many grim.
The av’rage man, who avoids the macabre,
Shies away, afraid it will somehow rob
Him of humanity: it’s not for him.

I, though: I find those men far too prim.
In monuments to those who live no more,
I find naught ghastly; rather, I find sure
Beauty in the elder stones and the dim

Remembrance, though crumbling stone and rotten
Edifice, image of those forgotten.

…you know, they may be right in calling me a bit on the morbid side.