27jun23

The face of evil. Plant-murdering evil.

The story I’m working on is giving me trouble, and time is ticking away, so today it’s 13 hours in the chair, brute-forcing a full draft to the end. It will be filled with placeholders and Bad Writing, but until I get a version of the entire shape down, it’s just going to flop and flounder. Get it all down first, fix it later. And time is running out – the client needs the piece, and I woke up with pain in my hands, which means I have to stop pushing the keyboard time very soon. So today’s the day. It will be interspersed with deliveries, which will break my flow a bit, but I will get through it.

One of those deliveries should be a charging connector. Probably ten years ago now, I was gifted a Chromebook Pixel by Google Open Source. It is a beautiful writing machine. A few years back, I mislaid the power cord. Official replacements no longer exist, but I have the measurements of the jack, and I’m going to make a little project out of (hopefully) reviving the thing. It was such a joy to write on, and I remember it working pretty well outdoors, so I have plans of tethering it to the phone and writing on the patio under the lilac tree with a large vodka martini.

All I need to do now is convince the new Echo Buds to work properly or convince the old B&O earbuds to connect to the new phone.

I’ve always believed that the imagination is a spiritual quality that, like memory, can be trained and developed.

MY LAST BREATH, Luis Bunuel

INBOX: 104, but there’s a lot of receipts and notifications in there, and calls to set, and documents to review. Onwards.