Overheard in the Office

I used to follow a blog that was called "Overheard in the Office," or some such. (Oh, hey, here it is.) I found it mostly funny - sometimes a bit crude - but I always found myself thinking "I must work with the most boring people in the world." Well, I work in the finance division of Megabank - that probably makes sense.

Then today, coming back from lunch, I heard "it's only sodomy if - "

Figuring I must have misheard, I inserted myself into the conversation, to have it repeated to me. It was "it's only sodomy if you have to say 'hey, doc, how are you doing that with both hands on my shoulder.' "

Oooookay. Apparently, they're having all the interesting conversations when I'm not listening.

Why I Love my Girlfriend

Last night, we stayed up past 11:00 discussing Mozart, Trent Reznor, David Bowie, Billy Joel, Metallica, the Cure, Alanis Morriset, and Tori Amos, all in the same conversation. Likely more, but I'm probably forgetting some.

Highlights:

Me: "See, it's when Trent Reznor stopped being pissed off that his music stopped being so good."

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Shoryl: "Then David hit the 'I'm an artist, but I have a coke habit and need to write hits' years..."
Me: "That's the section of his music I like, right?"
Shoryl: "yeah."

I’ve finally picked up a book that’s been in my TBR pile for … well, I can’t quite remember when I bought it. And I can’t quite remember what actually made me want to start reading it.

I’ve started reading Neal Stephenson. This is fairly far away from my normal reading habits, and I don’t think the story would keep me entertained for long if it weren’t for the absolutely amazing grasp of language and nuance. Stephenson is a master of language. And even if I don’t understand the mathematical and scientific principles he’s espousing (I don’t), and even if I don’t know my English history well enough to get all the of the events (I don’t), I could never fail to thoroughly enjoy a book that has pearls such as this strewn carelessly over every page.

Many words are said, but they make no more impact on Daniel than Mrs. Goose’s incoherent narratives about cutlery leaping over coelestial bodies and sluttish hags living in discarded footwear.

There’s a vivid joy in Stephenson’s writing that transcends every aspect of his work. The narrative, the characters, the history, and the science – it’s all there, but all the elements act like mirrors to reflect that luminescent prose.

Oh, yes. The book is Quicksilver. There’s no doubt in my mind, a mere 80 pages into the book, that I’ll be buying the other Baroque Cycle books, and likely Cryptonomicon and Anathem as well.

I’m also amused that – 80 pages in – I’ve finally put together that one of the characters is a Waterhouse, come to Massachusets from England. I am,distantly and oddly, related to this man.

Suns keep marching

Another 700 words on Suns last night, and I'm very pleased with them. The sculptor still wants to be a crotchety old man, but I'm resisting. I've just introduced his partner, found out that said partner is also a sculptor, and broke off right where Maatrya is trying to find some way to let them know she's family.

I worry sometimes about the subtext of the novel. I'm not out to write about the challenges of being queer in a world where fertility is the highest blessing, but it feels like that's where it's going. On the other hand, with so many forces tugging Maatrya every which way, I think I can turn this into a suitable theme. Love, real love, brings you home. And it doesn't really matter who you love, or how much of an outsider you feel like before it happens. Sounds mushy? Yeah. I dunno; blame Shoryl.

I'm having a lot of fun writing this scene, even though I'm more than a little convinced that it's meandering and probably not going to survive the revision intact. But I'm having fun, and that's the point. I expect to finish this scene tonight, giving me a satisfactory close to the first 3 chapters. This weekend, I'm sitting down with printouts and trying to make those chapters a little more coherent, then handing them off to Shoryl to read.

Out of the morass, and into the city

I finished the no-good scene that was giving me trouble, and I was off and running last night with about 600 words of some pretty good description and dialog. My sculptor seems to be having a personality crisis, however, as half the time he's written as a crotchety old man, and the other he's much younger. I think I want him to be younger, else I risk running into a trope I don't plan on using.

'Sides, a young gay couple ... I could run with that. And it would make the sculptor the one person who really doesn't want anything from Maatrya - which is exactly what I need him to be.