South Park Self

forests of the night

Good grief. Last night I dreamed I was staying in the guest house in Neil Gaiman's garden, but managed to somehow antagonise the pet tiger he had lounging around the place, so I spent a lot of the dream tiptoeing around avoiding it in a state of some trepidation. It was perfectly friendly to everyone else, but at one point it came and slept up against the guesthouse door in a marked manner. In retrospect, this might have had something to do with Hobbit sleeping on my feet, but why my subconscious should attribute tigers to Neil Gaiman is anyone's guess. Later there was the somewhat confused session in the hairdresser's that was also a delicatessen, but it wasn't really connected and I never actually had my hair cut.

I've had a lovely five days doing bugger-all, which I really needed. About the only things I actually achieved were chocolate chip cookies, another season of Smallville, and some progress in my current project, which is to scan old family photos my dad left. Black-and-white photos of one's parents in their twenties are a very oddly poignant experience. Oh, and a Microfiction (the theme was "Vainglory"). Not, I think, a very good piece of writing, I had an argument with Jo about last-minute free-flow creation versus careful and conscious shaping, which resulted in a mutual challenge to try the opposite technique, and it transpires I suck at the free-flow creation thing. Unless an idea has grabbed me to the point where it writes itself, which I'd say happens about one time in three, I'm all about the crafting, and the uncrafted first draft is generally horrible. I threw out about eight horrible first drafts this week, and the one I finally posted is a thin and obvious thing. The Romantic poets would hate me. I'm OK with that.

I have a four-day working week before me, three if you count working at home on Friday, and it's all cool and cloudy out there with a fine mist of rain. It's a good start.
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