reverse hades/persephone, where the young daughter of summer uses plant magic to ensnare the lord of darkness and keep him prisoner in a beautiful garden above ground. Eventually, enchanted by her cleverness and wild youth he agrees to eat six pomegranate seeds and stay with her for half of every year.
TEDIOUS NOVEL UPDATE
I wrote 3k in 2 hours, which now means I broke 10k today on my novel! Suck it novel!
Also another 2k and it beats the wordcount of my magnum opus, “How did the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis affect multinational companies”.
Hello campers, I’m doing the goddamn August Camp Nanowrimo. For those playing along at home, yes, I’m also still doing my masters! My dissertation is going fabulously, let me tell you.
This is my profile, and here is the profile/excerpt from my novel, which really needs renaming because 1. The current title is inaccurate since the character its named for is minor at best and 2. It just sounds like I’m ripping off Neil Gaiman. 3. I’m probably ripping off Neil Gaiman a little bit. 4. I’d like it if people wouldn’t think this until they’ve read it and 5. I’m really tired you guys how am I going to write a novel? And then write a dissertation straight after it?
Anyway, start your engines and lets write 50k, eh?
Hana cakara, data sawala, pada jayanya, maga bathanga.
The travel agent wore a lot of makeup on camera, probably under the out of date impression that the high definition made you look older and awful without it. Instead she looked like old footage, sparkling and sharp and every chalky grain of silica in her miserable mineral foundation visible on my screen.
I’m looking for a quick week away, I explain. Before she could cut in and bring up the in vision live feed to their Martian Cypriot resort I added “not off world”.
She frowned. “I know it seems counter intuitive but its actually cheaper and easier to travel to the colonies than to stay on Earth”.
“I just want some real weather,” I said
She smiled, sadly this time. “Oh honey, you’ll have to go a long way for that.”
I ended up spending a week in England that I booked myself. History tells of the English obsession with The Weather, the capitals pronounced crisp (like autumn) and ominous (like the tutting). History also tells of referenda following the exodus by those left behind, the ‘Jerusalem’ amendments and their fierce white-flavoured patriotism about green and pleasant lands. When terraforming was actually that, transforming terra gnostic into something thought to be lost.
I went in late December, officially the 175th coldest on record, same as the year before. The pretty snowflakes came down on Christmas Eve, right on schedule. The people stayed indoors, curtains closed, safe in the knowledge it would be gone by Boxing Day night.
Its shit like this that makes me despair about ever dropping everything and becoming a ‘writer’. It’d be fucking suicide.
Thank fuck for economics, let me tell you.
A quote from
By Karen Russell, From Vogue Street Style Shorts
(If you haven’t read any Karen Russell, you should. St. Lucy’s Home For Girls Raised By Wolves is my favourite short story collection of the last few years, her prose is beautiful and stories imaginative without falling into tropes. She also adapted one of the stories into a full length novel that is winning all the accolades. In short, she rocks.)
(I also cannot wait to finish this masters so I can start writing again :( )
If you read anything today, read this. Its rare a story makes me cry twice but this definitely is pitch-perfect.
Everything coming out of America these days fucking terrifies me.
A quote from The Boy Who Lived Forever | Time Magazine (via galfridian)
“Ugh, work is so irritating this morning. Not only has everything been running slow but there’s this beeping at in the office that is infuriating! Its driving me insane! It has an edge that must have been specially programmed to be on the same wavelength as screaming babies in tight spaces. I’m pretty sure its coming from the server room though, but when I ring IT they say that nothing’s showing up, but that a guy from the IT department will come and deal with it.” It’s the bad syncopation of it that I couldn’t stand. I sent that email to my sister and she emailed back something funny and cute, with a cat attached. There’s a cough from my boss when she sees it flash up and obviously not work related. She goes to lunch early and so the office is empty now, the wind blowing through my hair from the open window. Its silent, apart from the beeping.
At lunchtime I like to go into the field behind our office. The good thing about working in a industrial estate in the middle of nowhere is the proximity to nature. On days I remember to bring a lunch, I break through the fence and sit on my coat. There’s a field mouse nearby. It’s snuffling, happy in the dull English sunshine. My sandwich is the only thing ruining my commune with nature; it’s so cold from the enthusiastic fridge my teeth end up hurting. I go back to my desk and stare out of the window all afternoon. There are flowers on my desk when I get back, the date I had on Tuesday. They’re blue roses, coloured by romance. They stand for unobtainable, impossible desires.
I can’t get my head out of the office when I get home, and can’t stop thinking about the field when I’m at the office. My dreams are half mad. The mouse under my fingers snuffles when I stroke the scroll-wheel in its back, reassuringly ridged with tiny vertebrae that takes me down the page with a tiny click. The chirping of the birds sounds suspiciously like the failing server’s beeping. The flowers on my desk, wilting in grey blue water, their stems floppy and colours muted. My desk kicks me in the knees with strong hooves when my attention drifts from the document. The rolling hills shine in mid morning sunshine, too bright to be real.