So we registered in my name tonight.

The project is… the secondary, parallel track to my impulses to make things. Stories come first, but images are a close second.

Watch this space.


It’s been an eventful day.

1.) Fucked over for child support. Eh. Is what it is.

2.) Got lease/deposits taken care of for new apartment. No longer homeless! Hooray!

3.) Found out I’m going to be an auntie! :D I’M GONNA BE AN AAAAAAUNTIIIIIIE!

Story open. Words there; no words in head. Story stares at me. I stare at story. Story says, “wriiiiiite meeeeeeee…”!

Want write! Brain dead.


Maybe brain work later? Brain work after moved. Moving eating brain-words, filling brain with ‘deposits’ and ‘large truck’ and ‘hodeargod I have too much shit, where did it all COME from?’ and ‘I do not want to lift that sofa’ and ‘we should get more bookshelves’ and ‘holy shit this is expensive’.

Brain work after moved.

And, as an afterthought: the mummy story’s finished. Unedited, unpolished, completely and totally a rough first draft, but it’s done, clocking in at an initial total of 2,881 words.

Hell yes. Groove: on.

And now, bedtime for bitchcakes.

I confess.

I’m addicted to Crack(ed).

It’s terribly fascinating, the stuff you find there. Today, I discovered the concept of unwrapping parties: Victorian well-to-do purchased mummies from the roaring traded in Egyptian relics, and used the unwrapping of the dead as a party theme.

“‘Lord Londesborough at Home: A Mummy from Thebes to be unrolled at half-past Two”, read an invitational card. It was apparently quite the social phenomenon.

Fascinating. Morbid. God, how Victorian.

Of course, now there’s a story blossoming silently in the dark. Seeded, rooted, growing. Even the style of it, immediately apparent. Two hundred twenty-eight words begun, more to follow.

Of course, I make the decision to aim for the novel and not the stories, and a thousand-thousand blades of fictional grass sprout up in my head.

Of course, I’ll write them.

Of course, I’m mad.

Of course. Good night. :)