I don’t care how pretty…

or how ugly you think you are, wear a smile and all the doors open for you. All of them. Why? It’s fucking infectious.

I just wrote a brilliant entry. Damn. But my new Mac powers means I Fn C’d it, meaning I replaced it all with a really, really well-typed letter c.

Fn hell.

I’m drinking Aspartame so I’m all ign’ant and forgetful. Stupid Fn poison. Government-funded docility drug. AMIRIGHT, HELENA!?

My desk is now mostly devoid of stuff. It now has my router, my HUGE new Fn Mac, and a little SuperDrive, and my tiny new keyboard that hurts my manly-weak wrists. Anywho.

I installed internet in a customer’s house, and a quote on his wall was from some Norwegian guy. It said, "Saltwater fixes everything: tears, sweat, the open sea." I love it. It made me inspired.

I decided to try and read the Wheel of Time series. It starts off (as most 90’s epic fantasy) with a backcountry bumpkin farmersboy with basic archery training and an open imagination being thrown into a worldwar, against his will, in order to fulfill some random prophecy. Unlike Terry Brooks and however many other writers, Jordan’s work is inspiring. His writing is quality, educated, strong.

The only downside is he fleshes his secondary characters out so well I don’t give a Fn cent about the main ones. Blah. Slow writing means action is HURRY UP AND wait-type. Whatevs. I like it.

NOW IT’S TIME FOR PROECTTIMES. This means I vomit four paragraphs of poop about where my writing is.

My previous update mentioned I finished Of Salt and Wine, where Soren kills badguys and irrevocably destroys the innocence of his hired help, Wren. She’ll never be the same and now has an insatiable need to be close to Soren. Yess. Stockholm Syndrome for a willing accomplice. I now want to proofread/rewrite the second finished novel in the series, Of Earth and Blood, where Soren discards Wren/characters of first story to blindly help a bunch of douchey ghost hunters as they cocksurely get themselves trapped in a Cthulhu-esque catacomb filled with cockroaches that look like angels (in the right light). Boom. Just ruined the ending for y’all. Suck it.

Given Cygnus’ recent lamentation that I’ve stopped work on my high fantasy, I’ve been thinking about it nonstop. This means: writing to follow. I’m thinking the MC should survive the trial and I flesh out her journey so far. More characters. More secondary fleshing. A La Robert Jordan. Perhaps even a Gleeman and Aes Sedai.

No. Probably not. But Dragons Reborn, surely.

Other projects include Red Wing Black, where I’ve hacked a lung over a few pages, drying out the wit of Shane, the MC so far that he’s become a cut-out character. Hey. He almost lost the not-love of his life to a pit bull (Mr. Worldwide as he walks in the room. He’s a hustler baby, but that’s the news. Tonight it’s just me and…). His figment isn’t doing much; just injecting "real-world" wisdom with a syringe while Caysha’s not looking. All this rambling means I’m probably going to rewrite the previous chapter just to make the wit match and then decide whether Anarchy is the book’s ultimate direction or mindless sexcapades/shooting badguys would be the more interesting approach. I want Shane to be a dick to the world, at least a little, but at the same time… damn it takes so much explanation to get him there.

Tequila/tits or can wrenches and stolen fake IDs? Hmmmm. BOTH!? Who knows.

Finally, Prisn. Since I’m not lonely/alone anymore (I’ve returned from training to be with Cygnus), I’ll probably leave this Fn piece simmer until winter. Winter brings out the Emo/Bitchtits in me a lot more, and I can write this kind of fauxmance with much more presence of mind. Plus, yeah, Aspartame. I can’t write techie Tesla shit while daydreaming about action and adventure. Blah.

Now that I think about it, this whole entry reeks of Shane. I should have just written on Fn RedWingBlack instead of writing the same damned entry twice. Shit.

My new Mac screen is so large I have to open my third eye just to see the top. Ba-ding. Domination station.

Marquis, Out.