March 18th, 2005


Speak, puny humans.

Coming back to think about Shattered City, I realise a few things. In no real order:
  • Damn, I write a lot of smokers.
  • The motivating factors of any noir, but especially Dickensian cyberpunk noir, are cigarettes, hangovers, and dead people. Everything else is mix and match.
  • I wonder if anyone knows where half these names are coming from. Except for the person who has a character named after her.
  • Writing about a place I now live in is harder than writing about a place I want to live. I don't know if I could write Angel in Aspic again. But since it has served it's purpose as a sigil, maybe that's not so bad.
  • Working out how to instantiate Man Blue is fucking hard.
  • I need to work on the Asylum sequels at some point.
  • And that damn superhero game. Settings come and go in my head.
  • </ol>I think that about covers it.


There's an ache in my back, somewhere between a dull ache and the hard crushing blow of a hammer on both extensors. Backache feels like a comfortable old shoe as it fucks over my weekend once again.

My options are triple: I can venture out, into the cold, to consume boozeohol. This will stop the pain through muscle relaxation. However, given that my blood pressure is already low, not the best of plans. Especially when I could fall fast asleep at any moment, and am likely to attack people verbally and physically for saying the wrong word a single sharp or flat off-key. Not a people person.

I could sleep now. I just have, for the past hour and a half. Crawled into bed and let my eyes close. But it's half past fucking nine. Even if I do that for my normal twelve hours, there's still going to be a period tomorrow morning here I can't sleep and am awake, despite it being a weekend. This is a big problem.

Or, I could sit in front of the telly with my laptop on, pausing only to venture out to Tescos for food. Problem? It's almost as sad as the second option. And requires watching telly.

I hate when this doesn't happen on a work-night.