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Yesterday, Roomie and I went to the Macaroni Grill as a belated birthday dinner for him. Yum. I still prefer my spaghetti without cheese, but it was tasty and relatively inexpensive. Unfortunately, all my bodily excretions now reek of garlic.
While out, I also bought House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. I had a previous copy, but I've misplaced it. It's buried under a dune of clothes or shoved underneath the bed or crammed into the closet. I'll probably find it when I move out, along with dozens of other things I haven't yet realized I've lost.
I've never read it before. At the page sixty-seven mark, I'm undecided. Sometimes the anecdotes are genuinely creepy and unsettling, but at other times, the glint of writer's artifice shows through the pretense of novice record-keeping and armchair analysis. Sometimes, the scare or chilling line is so belabored, milked so vigorously for every drop of effect, that I want to roll my eyes and mutter, "Dammit, man, you made your point five lines ago. Move on." Even sex can go on past the point of pleasure, and while Danielewski might achieve gratification fondling the wafer-thin pages of his dictionary, there is such a thing as overkill.
Still, it serves as a distraction from the mind-numbing TV doldrums well enough.
On the writing front, I've kicked off the Danny portion of my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
all_hallows_fic series. Flackbunny is kicking up didoes, however, incensed that he's been left in the hutch, and Dannybun is intimidated. I've only managed five hundred and thirty-five words over three days; my customary output for the timeframe is ~3800 words. If Danny doesn't pipe up by morning, Flackbunny is going to regain the spotlight.
We'll see, I guess.
March of the Asshats: Day 11
While out, I also bought House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. I had a previous copy, but I've misplaced it. It's buried under a dune of clothes or shoved underneath the bed or crammed into the closet. I'll probably find it when I move out, along with dozens of other things I haven't yet realized I've lost.
I've never read it before. At the page sixty-seven mark, I'm undecided. Sometimes the anecdotes are genuinely creepy and unsettling, but at other times, the glint of writer's artifice shows through the pretense of novice record-keeping and armchair analysis. Sometimes, the scare or chilling line is so belabored, milked so vigorously for every drop of effect, that I want to roll my eyes and mutter, "Dammit, man, you made your point five lines ago. Move on." Even sex can go on past the point of pleasure, and while Danielewski might achieve gratification fondling the wafer-thin pages of his dictionary, there is such a thing as overkill.
Still, it serves as a distraction from the mind-numbing TV doldrums well enough.
On the writing front, I've kicked off the Danny portion of my
all_hallows_fic series. Flackbunny is kicking up didoes, however, incensed that he's been left in the hutch, and Dannybun is intimidated. I've only managed five hundred and thirty-five words over three days; my customary output for the timeframe is ~3800 words. If Danny doesn't pipe up by morning, Flackbunny is going to regain the spotlight.We'll see, I guess.
March of the Asshats: Day 11
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