whatho: (Tea)
I had a bagel today. It's mostly like eating undercooked dough. Entertaining but high in gluten, essentially. You know when people have had a bit of a shock and you give them tea with lorry loads of sugar therein? Oughtn't you really to give them a baked potato instead?

Anyway. I'm back on the plays this evening. I spent much of the weekend editing novels, and when I say novels I really mean things I wrote in a couple of Novembers when the dancing wasn't on. But now I can go back to the plays. Except it turns out that the plays are vexing me. I've spent half an hour trying to decide which file to open, and I've failed. One of the plays I'm writing (and you mustn't be under the illusion that I feel anything other than a prannock and a half when I say things like that) is an adaptation from a short story I wrote. In some ways this is almost a sensible idea because character-wise and location-wise - numbers thereof, I'm primarily meaning - it sort of works, and also it's 9,000 words long and a few more, and there's nothing you can do with a 9,000 word short story in and of itself. But in other ways it's derangedly complicated and I keep wondering if I can't work in that bit of prose that I really quite liked in the short story as a bit of dialogue in the play, and the answer is invariably no. I really can't. So maybe I won't open that file just now. I'm not quite sure.

Sometimes I think it would be really refreshing to walk directly through a sheet of quite thin glass.

The tennis is on in Neighbours usual timeslot. You know how, when I don't watch Neighbours, which is very much usually, it's always really, really gay? Do you think the same rule applies to the tennis? Because I never watch the tennis.
whatho: (Tea)
I had a bagel today. It's mostly like eating undercooked dough. Entertaining but high in gluten, essentially. You know when people have had a bit of a shock and you give them tea with lorry loads of sugar therein? Oughtn't you really to give them a baked potato instead?

Anyway. I'm back on the plays this evening. I spent much of the weekend editing novels, and when I say novels I really mean things I wrote in a couple of Novembers when the dancing wasn't on. But now I can go back to the plays. Except it turns out that the plays are vexing me. I've spent half an hour trying to decide which file to open, and I've failed. One of the plays I'm writing (and you mustn't be under the illusion that I feel anything other than a prannock and a half when I say things like that) is an adaptation from a short story I wrote. In some ways this is almost a sensible idea because character-wise and location-wise - numbers thereof, I'm primarily meaning - it sort of works, and also it's 9,000 words long and a few more, and there's nothing you can do with a 9,000 word short story in and of itself. But in other ways it's derangedly complicated and I keep wondering if I can't work in that bit of prose that I really quite liked in the short story as a bit of dialogue in the play, and the answer is invariably no. I really can't. So maybe I won't open that file just now. I'm not quite sure.

Sometimes I think it would be really refreshing to walk directly through a sheet of quite thin glass.

The tennis is on in Neighbours usual timeslot. You know how, when I don't watch Neighbours, which is very much usually, it's always really, really gay? Do you think the same rule applies to the tennis? Because I never watch the tennis.

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April 2015

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