So, today we're tackling the Obama Apology Meme - it's the one stating that, when first elected, the President traveled the world apologizing on behalf of the United States.
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Thomas L. Friedman (NY Times) is on board, now; he's got a good grasp of the post-information revolution paradigm. For comparison, read a David Brooks column - you'll see the difference.

Or watch the republican primary news. Heh.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/12/opinion/sunday/friedman-we-need-a-second-party.html

It's been a while since I actually read what I've been working on - the revision of Sunset on Sunset into American Dinosaur; I accidentally started at chapter one tonight, after making a PDF copy of the first three chapters.

I like to be harsh with myself; I want to always be my own worst critic.

Still, I can't deny it's good. Best I've ever done, actually.

Considering I've been working on it for nearly five years now, off and on, It should be, eh?

Still, I think I may've finally taught myself how to write novel length stuff.

Beware. Be very ware.

Text follows:


"NO," I didn't mean it to come out so forcefully, to ring from the trees nearby, to echo faintly from the wall of the horrible little shack we'd just left.

"No. No, I am not like you. I don't mean that I don't - or couldn't - hell, I've never cared what people think of who or what I do. No. It's not like that. I'm not like you. I don't get to...." I trail off, and the world is silent around me as everyone listens.

Fuck it. Let 'em know.

"I once loved somebody. It's only important to me who it was, to everyone else, the important thing is... well. You saw what I do. What I'm saddled with. I fight the monsters, no holds barred. You know what they do when they figure out they can't take you, face to face?"

I lean in close to the young man, letting him see the hate and pain in my face, the lines, the years I've spent killing myself slowly because I'm too chickenshit to do it all at once.

"They come after those you care about. Those you love. They take them in the night, hide them where you'll never find, then they - they hurt them, and... they send them back to you... a piece at a time. The heart last. So you don't get love. I don't get to love. The best thing for anybody I care about, or could care about, is to stay the hell away from me, as far as you can get."

He nods, not accepting, just thinking. Then he holds my silver-edged Bowie up between us, light dancing from the razor edge into my eyes for the length of a breath.

Faster than I could blink, he plunges the knife into his stomach and crumples to the ground.

I'm already feeling dizzy, this makes it worse. I fall to my knees and pull the knife free; what I'm saying to the boy who just killed himself shouldn't be the last thing he hears, so I shut up so fast my teeth click. His packmates howl, long and low, behind us.

Then he looks up, grimacing in pain, and slowly, carefully, unfolds his body. "I'm durable," He says, almost shyly.

Good thing, because I'm going into shock. He'll need to drive. What happened to were-cat-things, er, lycan... er... shifters being hurt by silver?
And what is it with the younger crowd, that none of them seem to know how to drive a stick shift? Christ's balls, all the way to Hollywood in first gear.... bucking all the way... traaa laaa laaa...

Then everything went dark for a while.

Steve Jobs checked out today; he went, of course, with style.

The rewrite and recovery of Sunset goes on - all of you who commented on pacing and flatspots were listened to; here's a clip from near the end of the book; recommend reading while this plays in the background:

"You need to listen to your messages more often, Nephew," My uncle says, smoke curling from the shotgun's short barrels, "This hadda be -

A lightning fast, almost casual, sidekick from Billy Cuentes shuts him up, sends him tumbling right back down the concrete stairs he'd popped up from.

Time to play what little hand I have. I reach out, grip invisible puppet strings, and yank hard.

Bodies retain something even after those that lived in them have left; the wet, steaming corpse that had been Dana Susan North swarms up Billy Cuente's side. He screams. She leans into his face and growls, "KIZZ ME", even as the pale, cold body that once belonged to Nunzio Grappeli grips Billy's head in both hands.

Billy's neck thumps softly, like a firecracker wrapped in wet velvet, as it snaps. I understand, even empathize, when Paddy Glumb loses control of his bladder.

He's not facing me; I use the Louisville Slugger as a brace, half climbing it to sway on my feet, distracting Paddy by raising the still-twitching body of William Jueges Cuentes to its feet. Head rolling at an angle that would make vision impossible, it steps toward Paddy anyway; he backs away, moving perfectly into the batter's zone.

"Hey, Paddy," I say, very quietly. He turns. I swing.

When I was a child, back in the hills, the day after Halloween was almost as fun as the night itself. Being a poor section of the world, we had very little other decorations than pumpkins and candles, which meant that there were a lot of rotten gourds after All Hallows had come and gone. We boys would target them with feet, clubs and baseball bats; they'd fly apart, splattering and spraying a gruesome mess that was somehow very satisfying to cause.

Paddy Glumb's death is something like that. I smile and, wheezing from my collapsing lungs and broken ribs, turn to face the man who'd killed so many, including those closest to me.

http://youtu.be/GQwr7OnPKH8

Christ's balls - maybe I'm going Nova.

[Poll #1736586]Yep, this is an indicator that there's published work a-comin' down the pike. Emily Calico and the Deadly Unrhyme is being put together; meanwhile, Sunset on Sunset is also being formatted. I'm thinking to have a freebie on Amazon, say something with two or three short stories, then Emily (with 6 - 9 short stories) for 99 cents or 1.99, then Sunset for 2.99 or so as the long, novel-length monster that it is.

Authors out there, brace yourself for offers of free reading material in exchange for blurbs. And artists? I'm going to be hittin' y'all up for cover art, maybe.

[Poll #1731025]

So, kind of got delayed in wordsmithing by being sick; that bronchitis thing turned out to be more of a pneumonia thing. Anyway, I'm down to three variations on a theme for the short story compilation - are you feeling influential? Hee. And, yes, for some reason there are a number of cats invovled in the stories... just turned out that way.

Goal: Starting from less than zero, in two weeks come up with the scratch to make a round trip visit from Cowtown, Mid-central Ohio, to do Urban Exploration in Detroit, thence to a night run at Organ Grinder's Ball in Cleveland - return a friend to Detroit and then home to Columbus.

Possibly have a hotel stay over; invited evil-doers for this run are as follows:

Driver and Operant Misoperator: satyrix
Moll and waifish destructionist: jenmur
Machineguns, mischief and General Patton: patzilla
Tour Guide and Kills-the-big-bad-in-the-final-scene-due-to-being-underestimated:dubhain