It has been many a moon since I update you on the progress of Tabula, my epic SciFi novel about climate war, genetic alteration, time travel, war, corruption, hope, and love.
Warning: spoilers for people who can read my handwriting!
This is how corporations turn us into glorified slaves, and I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid after that first bitter sip.
I’ve been sitting down thinking “I need to write the best science fiction novel of the 21st century!” or “I need to write something that will sell a million copies!” or just “I need to write well.” These are all useless mindsets.
Consume a lot of good art to remind yourself why you’re doing this, and escape to your happy place to recharge, whatever that might mean for you.
It was exhilarating to treat creative writing like a full-time job, if only for one day, and it has borne a lot of juicy imagination fruits.
My gift to myself this Christmas was planning absolutely nothing on Boxing Day so I could devote eight hours to Tabula.
I feel like I've sunk into the belly of a story-hoarding beast. I can dimly see the mouth and I'm trying to climb out with ladders made from sentences. But often I find they only lead me deeper into the guts.
I’m having trouble getting through King's 'The Gunslinger'. Not because the story is bad, but because I’m only on page 61 and already the treatment of women is deeply shitty.
In his darkest hours he'd always found comfort in the thought that the world itself might just be a particularly vivid dream in the mind of some ageless sleeper. But, as he heard footsteps approaching outside the hut, the thought seemed dry and impotent against this wet morning that lay quiet before him, in wait for his blood.