Oh, I don't need snotty. I'm all in favor of supporting people, I just don't have much to offer her. Hell, I don't even know what she writes. If it turns out to be Oprah victim-of-the-week stuff, I really won't be able to help her. (Besides, what if she's awful? eeeps)
Although it's odd -- I've made amazing connections through the online communities I'm in. I'm 2 degrees away from half a dozen marvelous fantasy novelists via the online fannish community. Heee. And my sister-in-law went to college with Elizabeth McCracken, author of The Giant's House. Now if I only had the drive to use these connections... (okay, and actually write something worth publishing).
I do have one friend with three vampire thrillers in the can, that I really need to poke a bit about polishing them up and sending them off. She's amazingly talented and these things are just... sitting there. They need to be read by someone other than me.
... and on that note, I'm off to do real work. But I'm bringing an unfinished original thing with me to work on when the discussion of the geology of the central O'ahu plateau gets too dry.
R&R Circus was about a year, year and a half before I met Nicky.
Nicky Hopkins? Fuck. I wish you could've heard the long conversation I had with a local musician where she went on about "God, we'd love to find a pianist who could play like Nicky Hopkins, but there's nobody like him."
Deb's too cool. And I need to corner her at her house and get Who/POTUS gossip.
Somebody post that story. Inquiring minds....
Drive-by to crow that I'm proud of myself. I outlined a new spec TV script. It's not perfect or nuthin', but I haven't really worked on my writing since before the holidays, so this is good.
AnnieLeibovitz+SusanSontag4Eva!!!
Oh, I don't need snotty.
Heh. I am NEVER snotty to people; I meant, the post I put up sounded like I was practising being the ubersnot.
And I need to corner her at her house and get Who/POTUS gossip.
Yes, dear, you honestly do. It's not like you don't live, what? Ten minutes away?
It's a brilliant story, summed up by a simple fact: Someone put Keith Moon in a hotel suite one floor directly below Gerald Ford's suite. Lordy, what an evening. And yes, there's a lot more to the story, but I ain't a-posting it here. It does, however, feature the deathless line: "Don't shoot! You'll cause an incident! They're aliens!"
Hint: that line was not spoken by anyone with a UK accent.
Deb, I posted the change to my fic in Bitchy Fic...
jengod, yay for you! A start is wonderful. Now all you need is to build a little momentum! Go, you!
Still haven't gotten into the daily songwriting routine. Or at all, really.
The conversation here did lead me to realize that where I am on the continuum is at the ritual by fucking around point. Jamming around deliberately and on schedule is new for me. I'll worry about ritual by method and education later.
I bet they put Keith Moon there on purpose. Conspiracy, I tell ya.
Thanks Beverly! I think I've got a good writerly buzz goin' on in 2003. Hard to explain.
