|Alley Writer Yack|
by Tom Schaller
It's amazing how much more time one has when one stops reading blogs extensively. I'm finally getting back to writing "Becoming". Ok, I needed ink, too, but . . .
15,486 words is what I'd gotten down when I stopped to back up and get organized. I just printed out a copy of the MS. The next few days I'll be using my spare time to make lists of names of streets and people and what not. Maybe I'll go ahead and map out the city, too. Probably not. I hate that stuff, though it would certainly be helpful, since so muc goes on inside the city for a while.
I marvel at how much time can be eaten just replying to things on blogs not one's own. Freakin' amazing. I should have been back on this months ago.
So it'll be back to my early blogging habits, before I discovered that there were tons of political blogs. My thoughts on whatever (mostly the war and Muslim scum) and my thoughts on my own writing things that I've read. Don't like? Too fuckin' bad, go read something else.
This week gets stranger and stranger, and I'm finding out that I'm "loved" by people I probably don't want any love from.
"Tammy" wrote to let me know that she is the woman for me. She loves my mind, she thinks I'm a hotty (based on one little picture at the bottom of this blog), and, hey, can we meet, it's ok if I'm married.
I'm reasonably sure that "ok" didn't come from my wife, though.
Tammy, I appreciate the thoughts and the kind words. Really. But, no thanks.
Note to future Roberts and Tammys. Thanks, but no. Please don't write me. But, hey, pull a BB and start a blog in my honor! It could be like an Angry White Trash fan club. One that never writes me or invites me to anything. Never. Ok. NEVER!
I just finished George R.R. Martin's "A Clash of Kings". It's probably the most interesting book where nothing happens that I've ever read. I'll give it 7 bricks.
Now I have to dig through everything I have and see what's next. So far all I have is false starts and bad beginnings.
I picked up Mathew Stover's "Blade of Tyshalle" because I love the premise, which is splashed on the cover, "There are no rules of war". But it starts out with a very uninteresting exchange regarding a problem student at some futuristic magic school. Very boring. And a very stupid and amatuerish blunder.
Anyway, I skipped ahead, hoping that if I pick things up after they got rolling that it would be better. Wrongo, Yackerizers. Stover has a real gift for making even a savagely delivered beaten seem just another ho hum bit of happenstance. Won't be picking him up again.
So I moved on to one I've been looking forward to; Jeffery Deaver's "The Bone Collector". Starts out with some woman I don't give a damn about (how could I, I've not learned anything about her, yet), having a bad plan ride and then a bad time at the airport. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaawn. Big deal. See ya later, Jeffery. Or not.
Then I figured, what the heck, let's stick with Fantasy. I have a bunch of Robert Jordan and I've never read a word he's written. Another bad idea. "The Eye of the World" starts out making me curious, because Jordan puts us right into things just after a huge tragedy where lots and lots of people died and there was lightening and fire and massive buildings tossed about like they hardly mattered. But then his characters begin to talk to each other. Now you'd think that with all this devastation around them and all their friends newly fried, scortched or crushed to death that they would have some fairly heavy emotional dialogue. But no. They start to petty and nonsensicle bickering that takes us no place and tells us nothing. See ya when I see ya, Robert. Have fun without me.
This is a plague upon modern writing. I just read the beginning of another book (one I did not buy), by a very respected Fantasy writer. It started out with a woman I assume was the protagonist "glaring angrily" AT A GLASS OF FUCKING ORANGE JUICE!
::sigh:: What I really need is a good supply of David Gemmell while I wait for the next Kate Elliott and Jo Walton novels to come out. For now it's back to scouring my shelves. Maybe I'll read a few Tarzan volumes, or maybe one of Karl Edward Wagner's "Conan" books (yes, I know Conan is a Robert E. Howard character, but Wagner wrote several of the later novels).
More later. I'm sure you're all on the edges of your seats waiting to know what I pick.
Rather than protecting America and slaughtering our Muslim enemies in the field, in their homes, wherever they may be found, inside America and out, Dubya seeks instead to appease. He talks tough when he's in front of American cameras, but his actions say that he is still an oil whore and williing to sell us out to support his Arab fellows.
We neither need nor require the help of any other nation to make war on these hate filled animals. Pretending that the house of Fraud, the largest and richest terrorist organization in the world, is in any way our friend or on our side is sickening and puts American lives at risk needlessly.
It hasn't been nice knowing you, Dubya, so don't expect a second term.