Shortpost, for my brain is goo.

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. :)

 

The enemy is a blank page.

Getting distracted by someone else’s website is what turns your brain back on. I saw it mentioned recently, and I will get around soon to looking up who actually said it, but it’s true: the road to hell is paved with good connections.

If I’m going to actually write, I’m going to have to kill my internet connection and move to darkest Nebraska, where I hear they still feel that electricity is somewhat suspect, never mind those intertubes.

(Note for Nebraskans: I don’t mean it. Upstate New York really does feel that way in places; perhaps I should have used it instead.)

Anyway: hello! Here I am, like Walt Whitman, sounding my barbaric yawp over the landscape of the WWW. More to come.