I know I do it sometimes (ebil and teh mostly), but ya know what? LOLSpeak is starting to wear thin.
I’ve hit some forums lately where perfectly normal threads are turned into baby-talk bullshit within moments, because you just know once one starts, the rest must follow. OR on the flip side of that, they totally die out because the rest of the population are saying to themselves – “wtf? gtfuogtfo!” Even my kids, man – even my kids get pissy. And Rhia talks in babytalk to anything smaller or furry!
< …

Okay, the man has passed on, however I feel the need to say happy birthday anyway. So:
Happy Birthday, A.E. VanVogt – born April 28th, 1912 in Gretna, Manitoba. Spent much of his childhood in Morden. Author of Slan, Null-A, The Mind Cage and The Silkie.
How cool is it to have grown up in a town with a major sci-fi writer in its past? Damn cool. Damn cool indeed. I wonder if the town has ever considered posting some sort of honor up for him. I mean, really…

The other night, during a fever induced state of insomnia unlike any other, I managed to get in about 400 words. That is the first 400 words in a very long time. It’s a start back, at any rate.
My problem is this. I see the story, I have the protagonist, the antagonist, the secondary characters, the setting, the secondary settings, the plot, the secondary plot and the title. I have it all worked out in my head (first time for everything) as at the very least, a novella. Now …

Yeah – not what you thought it was, folks. Get your mind out of the gutter. There isn’t room for all of you and me down here. Shoo….
I’ll be fiddling with the site this weekend. Actually, all of the sites I run that are using WP are going through a bit of a bunch-up, and some may go offline briefly. For Jodi Lee Bleeds, I’ve never been entirely happy with the content background color. Something just isn’t working for me, so I’m going to go darker again. I don’t know, …

ITEM: We write because we must, because we are burdened day and night with stories that must be told. Sometimes, those tales, told to us by a muse that is often as much trickster as divine inspiration, get lost in the translation… We struggle to listen to that inner voice and convey what lies scattered there, on a field of battle strewn with the corpses of stories untold… Our hands move over the keyboard even as our minds reach for Valhalla.
Bob Freeman
Spoken so much more eloquently than I ever could …