For kicks and giggles last week, I checked World Catalogue again. The book is now in 11 libraries!
So, I stopped the blind stabs of opening files and hopeful keyword searches and used Scrivener to build an Index
Lots of potential here: the parallels between narcotic use and necromancy are interesting, the language is often Chandler-esque in a good way, and it delves into some interesting psychological territory.
On the street, we walk, the survivors. Along side us are the workers of the fish market, in boots, jeans, t-shirts, aprons. I ask where the ferry is.
“Back in hell. Just turn around, and hang a left in the middle of hell.”
Since that spill, I’ve borne a grudge against the sinister presence that created “right” ways. That enforced its rules whimsically, letting me do it my way much of the time. Tricking me other times. Sometimes even punishing me with a broken glass or painful scrape.
“There’s been an attack at the 36th street stop.”
“Where Max waits for Andoni.”
I had a post ready to go, a lighthearted look at paying attention to what you’re doing and the right vs. my way of getting things done. And then Russia invaded Ukraine. Suddenly, the world was different. So too will this issue of the newsletter be. Friends and Family I have neither […]
26 books in 10 months. Not shabby.
That stuff, well, once you stop learning about those things, you’re dead—even if your body is still walking about, going through the motions of life. That’s existing, simply not being buried yet.
Scars makes sense for the body—stop bleeding, prevent an infection, protect the break—quickly—to keep us alive and then repair the harm as fast as possible. Gotta keep going after all. But, some scars heal up better than others.