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I had planned on putting the finishing touches on "Glory Days" today, but the weather saw fit to piss on those plans. It rained intermittently from noon until eight o'clock, and ever since the painful lesson of 2004, when my electronics were wiped out by a single lightning bolt, I refuse to plug in my electronics until the skies have cleared. Hence, no ficcing. I'm going to do what I can after Numb3rs, but I doubt it will get me across the finish line. Bleagh. Please, just let Wednesday be clear so I can get Flacked good and proper.
I read a lot today, however, and thoroughly enjoyed the act, if not the book. Paul Auster's New York Trilogy has been lying around the apartment for years, ever since I had to read "The Locked Room" for an advanced Lit course with the Chair of the English Department. Auster is quite the wordsmith, and the ideas he puts forth in his writing-namely the nature and search for identity and the writer's function in creating it-are interesting and intellectually engaging, but I'm not a fan of pretentious self-awareness in books, and the trilogy is clotted with it. It's as off-putting as the ideas are fascinating, and casual readers and genre fans would do well to give it a miss. Fans of intellectual racquetball might be captivated by the Miltonian discourses on human nature and the frailties of social constructs. I enjoyed them despite their obvious funk of authorial showboating.
As soon as I finish Trilogy, I've got Gregory Maguire's The Ugly Stepsister lined up, as well as Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, which I started a year ago and abandoned when I wearied of the endless descriptions of drawing-room politics in Edwardian and Victorian England. Then, there's John Steinbeck's East of Eden. Heaven knows if I'll get to them all, but I should try. Reading is a writer's best and simplest defense against the erosion of skill.
And then there's the writing I hope to do, weather permitting. I've still got all the prompts from Fic Gueraerobics 2006, the impending assignment from Lyricathon 2006, and the sundry plotkits that scuttle from their burrows to nest and nibble on my toes. For instance, I'm noodling with the idea of Flack walking away from Rebecca after finding out that she's a witch, only to discover after a few weeks that misses her and wants her back, witch or not, but cannot find a way to return to the wizarding world to tell her so.
Well, it's time to drink root beer and watch Numb3rs.
ETA: Feliz Cinco de Mayo a todos que lo celebraron.
I read a lot today, however, and thoroughly enjoyed the act, if not the book. Paul Auster's New York Trilogy has been lying around the apartment for years, ever since I had to read "The Locked Room" for an advanced Lit course with the Chair of the English Department. Auster is quite the wordsmith, and the ideas he puts forth in his writing-namely the nature and search for identity and the writer's function in creating it-are interesting and intellectually engaging, but I'm not a fan of pretentious self-awareness in books, and the trilogy is clotted with it. It's as off-putting as the ideas are fascinating, and casual readers and genre fans would do well to give it a miss. Fans of intellectual racquetball might be captivated by the Miltonian discourses on human nature and the frailties of social constructs. I enjoyed them despite their obvious funk of authorial showboating.
As soon as I finish Trilogy, I've got Gregory Maguire's The Ugly Stepsister lined up, as well as Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, which I started a year ago and abandoned when I wearied of the endless descriptions of drawing-room politics in Edwardian and Victorian England. Then, there's John Steinbeck's East of Eden. Heaven knows if I'll get to them all, but I should try. Reading is a writer's best and simplest defense against the erosion of skill.
And then there's the writing I hope to do, weather permitting. I've still got all the prompts from Fic Gueraerobics 2006, the impending assignment from Lyricathon 2006, and the sundry plotkits that scuttle from their burrows to nest and nibble on my toes. For instance, I'm noodling with the idea of Flack walking away from Rebecca after finding out that she's a witch, only to discover after a few weeks that misses her and wants her back, witch or not, but cannot find a way to return to the wizarding world to tell her so.
Well, it's time to drink root beer and watch Numb3rs.
ETA: Feliz Cinco de Mayo a todos que lo celebraron.
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