Posts made in May, 2017

Blog #46: The Focative Syllogism

Blog #46:  The Focative Syllogism

—or:  ‘Disgusting and Itchy’!   (Just nevermind.)   So I’ve been on hiatus with the writing.  I needed a break, I needed to replenish, I needed to remake myself, I needed… to conquer and plunder and destroy and read some junk for a while…  And so shall I continue to do.  But I also have to start writing again.  Not just ‘writery-related’ stuff—like the promoting and publicizing and looking for reviews or publishers or whatever—because that’s what depletes my energy and my creativity and my mojo and my [something French] and my… chutzpah?  (Probably not chutzpah…)   Well, whatever.  My plan, writing-wise, is to come back this fall and finish off my third novel, ‘More than Kin and Less than Kind’ (which was being problematic)—but over the summer I would also like to start (continue) plotting out the notions I’m having for a fourth novel:  ‘Weasel in the Rough’!  (I’m very excited!  Well, not that excited… I’m… nebulously not unenthused?  But nowhere near nipple-tingly.  Let’s say… moderately optimistic.)   In the meanwhile, one of the little side projects I’ve been (hardly at all) working on is an expurgated version of Daemon Mishka, volumes 2, 3, and 4, collectively to be entitled ‘Potemkin’s Umbrage’… which I hope to publish this year, but it’s slow going (what, with the not working on it so much, and all…).  So we’ll have to wait and see.  But there was a bit—from spring of 2002, so (holy crud!) 15 years ago (bloodyhellstinkrot—how—?!)—which I just read and thought to share in blog-like fashion… which is nice, mesupposes, as I just never write blogs anymore… and they were kind of fun… and mayhap I should do more of them again… butanyhoo—   So this amused and/or entertained me, so here’s a bit o’ stuff…    # # #   from ‘Potemkin’s Umbrage’ (forthcoming):   You know, you can’t write a romantically lyrical poem using the term “skull-fuck”.  I mean, you could start out with something about how beautiful her eyes are—move into the passion they imbrue within… and then—no, no, no, no, no!  Not at all, not even a little bit—just cannot happen… unless perhaps it was done in French?  (And, in this case, when I say “it was done in French” I am referring to the presumed writing of such a poem.)  Of course, even that’s no guarantee—what if in French “skull-fuck” is still just...

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