Kthaahthikha
One man, a word-processor, and too much free time.
15 October, 2005
Warble
National Novel-Writing Month forces a person to evaluate their interests. I've been delving into my psyche to try and construct an image of the kind of story I like, tying things together by connecting pieces of red and blue string between the various works that will influence me in this endeavour. My bookshelf is smothered by nylon that centres upon Borges and Ian Fleming, my Nintendo 64 enshrouded in blue wool. I have several characters lined-up before me, all dressed in hospital gowns over their idiosyncratic dress, ready to donate a face or a coif or a kidney towards the construction of my elaborate Frankensteinian monster. I've being flying an aero-barge over the cities of the mind, lifting buildings and pulling them apart with my army of aethereal WALDO arms. The world has become a jigsaw puzzle of metaphysical characteristics, and I've leaning heavily towards certain districts that in real life I would rather be furthest from.
So what do we have so far in regards to my designs? Surrealestate is expensive these days so I have to choose swiftly and wisely. I've gutted Joanna Dark and wrapped her skin around Sam Spade, crushing my own mind into the cranium after polluting it with noir and excessive illogic. My garb is that of a librarian and my den that of a book-seller, and my weapons are a curious combination of James Bond and Doom. The city outside the door, what little of it can be seen, is a strange admixture of the 1930s, the 2030s, and all of it levelled out by only seeming to be different from now, when now it is. So no flying cars, sorry, although the emissaries from Sirius B have been making sly hints that they could change it.
Well, suffice to say that I've got limited ideas, and this was just an excuse to ramble.
So what do we have so far in regards to my designs? Surrealestate is expensive these days so I have to choose swiftly and wisely. I've gutted Joanna Dark and wrapped her skin around Sam Spade, crushing my own mind into the cranium after polluting it with noir and excessive illogic. My garb is that of a librarian and my den that of a book-seller, and my weapons are a curious combination of James Bond and Doom. The city outside the door, what little of it can be seen, is a strange admixture of the 1930s, the 2030s, and all of it levelled out by only seeming to be different from now, when now it is. So no flying cars, sorry, although the emissaries from Sirius B have been making sly hints that they could change it.
Well, suffice to say that I've got limited ideas, and this was just an excuse to ramble.
Tom Meade, 11:26 am
1 Comments:
Ah so a novel is in the pipeline, or something.
