April 16th, 2009


Obscure worries

I fear that this story I'm writing is going to be emotionally structured like a movie where the hero comes out a door, an exterior door, and something by The Cure starts playing.

There are distinct disadvantages to having been a little kid in the 1980s, I'm telling you. Some parts of one's brain get written weirdly. And then when you get out of bed to get a little more story before the sleep wins, the chords in your head couldn't smell any clearer. You know that lovely Better Than Bouillon stuff, the beef kind, that really is much better than bouillon? That is what the pop end of The Cure smells like. The gothier end gets more mushrooms in it, and some ground walnut I think.

Right then. Give me fiction or give me sleep! Um. I suspect I have already indicated with my metaphors which is the wiser course.