greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

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no peachy prayers, no trendy rechauffe

Today, David Bowie is 60 years old. Which makes my -2 seem utterly insignificant, and I can only hope to age with such grace and dignity. The regular infusions of alien DNA help.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,693 words and so made it through seven consecutive days wherein I wrote at least 1,500 words. Seven down, twenty-four to go.

It rained here all day yesterday, then just before dark, about 6:30 or 7 p.m. (CaST), a line of intense thunderstorms passed through the city. I watched their progress on Doppler, which remains a fascination for me. But mostly I sat here at my desk, watching the steady rain outside, the blue-grey day. I did not leave the house.

Spooky baked blueberry muffins.

While she fixed dinner, I did manage a hot bath. Then I watched a documentary on the geology of the Great Lakes, dozed, snuggled with Hubero, played a bit of Final Fantasy XII, ate a few Skittles, then went to bed and Spooky read to me from Gregory Maguire's Lost. I am sad to say I do not find this novel anywhere near as agreeable as Wicked or Son of a Witch. It is burdened with a central character who is so painfully humdrum, ordinary, unremarkable, & etc., and though there have been moments of brilliance, the overall effect of the novel is not so very different from Winnie herself. Winnie's only outstanding character flaw is that she's a bit of a compulsive liar, but given that she's a writer that's hardly surprising. The weight of the ordinary drags me down. But there is yet dim hope that some peculiar and grim revelation may present itself. Genuine mystery and awe have been hinted at. We are nearing the end of the novel, though, so it'll have to happen soon if it's going to happen at all. I hate to say unpleasant things about another author's work, especially one I do generally admire, but what the frell. He's rich. My comments will have no effect whatsoever on the course of his career. I bear Gregory Maguire no ill will, but this protagonist needs to get a life. As it were.

People (writers, editors, people) talk about "flawed" characters and "difficult" characters as though they are a problem. Personally, I cannot imagine literature without them. Who else would I ever write about? Who wants to write about unflawed, easy people? Not me. Nor do I wish to read about them. Give me Merricat and Francis Phelan, Elphaba Thropp and Deacon Silvey. But maybe that's just me. Unflawed, easy people bore me, and they always have.

Spooky is working on a series of bird dolls. The first that she has completed is wonderful. I at once discovered the doll is another Joey LaFaye character and named her (for a her it is) Hieronymus Borscht. Spooky will post photos soon, I think. This will be known as her "Bird Phase," her Ornithaceous Period.

If you have not yet procured a copy of Daughter of Hounds, I hope that you will do so today. Please. It is filled with difficult, flawed characters whom I love.

Maybe I will leave the house today. I have not yet begun to write, so it is too early to say. We shall see.

Postscript (1:21 p.m. CaST): I just saw that Daughter of Hounds has been honored in the Sinister Sixth Annual Tropism Awards, receiving "Best Standalone Novel." Also, Alabaster gets "Best Story Suite/Mosaic Novel." Oh, I love specificity! By the way, MySpace readers do not get addenda and postscripts and the like. Count yourselves lucky, kiddos.
Tags: bowie, difficult characters, doh, dolls, joey lafaye, reading, weather
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