I’ve got a bad case of the creative twitch today. Ideas about mysterious chapbooks that are codexes with distorted keys and maligned histories are still rolling around in my head (and, frankly, the only reason they’re still just ideas is that my photoshop-fu is really bad, a state which, for a change, is actually preserving my sanity today). The newest issue of McSweeney’s doesn’t help. The damn thing comes in a cigar box and every loose piece of paper is another bit of creative kerfluffle.
Kevin Dart’s art isn’t helping either. Every new picture he puts up makes me want to write pulp. The sort of pulp that takes a weekend to write and a long bus ride to read, but which entertains reader and writer because it is unapologetic about being, well, go look at the art. Go. Now.
Oh, yeah, and there’s my bit about Ian McDonald’s River of Gods that has been posted at Strange Horizons. Apparently all that bitching and moaning I did last week about being bound up about writing the review was just, well, B & M. I must have found the right valve in my head after all.
I’m somewhere near page 320 on the read-thru/gloss edit on SOULS. Close to the 2/3s mark. I might actually get the edit done before Widget arrives, though it is going to be close. We’re at T minus 12 days around the house. With allowances for hot weather and seismic mole activity, of course.
Still, creatively twitching over here. Want to make artifacts to bury in the world and let people find them and wonder about their genesis. Want to make serials that run until sundown and that make people stay up late, working through the underlying conspiracies and clues. Twitch, twitch.