April 24th, 2004

reiko

(no subject)

So. I'm not dead. I'm actually reading American Gods at the moment (well, not this moment; I'm taking a break for lunch) as a quick palate-cleanser before I head into my last week of papers and finals. Also, I got my official STD certificate and pin in the mail today. (Hee hee hee. Snerk.)

I'm also working on Black Ribbon--I ended up going through chapter four and putting all my ducks scenes in a row and making notes of what was lacking. I've also been structuring the next three volumes/books/serials/whatever you want to call them--the next one will be "Danse Macabre," and I'm thinking the third one may be "The Fatalist." V. exciting. For me, I mean, because this is the part I like best--the initial drafting/creating phase. Anyway, I feel a lot more comfortable trying to pull the first volume together knowing where I want to take the next three.

Oh, and I have four new Misfits icons relating to The One Wank to Rule Them All. Want/take/have, as is my usual policy.

  • Current Music
    Tori Amos, "Past the Mission"
msauvage purple

(no subject)

*Cough* God! Sister Girl just brought in some laundry--the clothes she was wearing last night when she was trapped in a small dorm room with two heavy smokers--and now MY room smells like ass. Seriously, these people must have been smoking dirty socks or something. Faugh.

Halfway through American Gods. Is completely fucked up. This is a compliment.

Blarg. Off to light vanilla incense.

reiko2

(no subject)

All right. Have finished American Gods. Don't quite know what to think of the epilogue in Reykjavik and all yet, but okay--sign of a good read, that you keep thinking about it. Highly recommended.

Here's how dumb I am: Vladimir sends me this copy from Zagreb late last year, as previously mentioned, and I get to Neil's autograph--as you will recall, Vladimir is Neil's Croatian translator--and I go, "Huh. Cat eyes. Random. Okay." Yeah. So I'm taking a break from reading to eat dinner (yes, I try to read books in as few sittings as possible; it's just a compulsion I have), and I'm talking to Vladimir on IM, and he says, "What'd Neil draw in your book again? I think I remember..."

"Uh... cat eyes?"

"No, it wasn't cat eyes. Go check again."

"Well, I'm pretty sure it was eyes, but whatever, and one of them is OH MY GOD."

ODIN!



And seriously, it is a great book. It's the kind of book that--well, put it this way: I read Lolita and I love Lolita, but I read it when I was about eighteen and it seriously messed up my writing style--for a while I was obsessed with crafting little Fabergé egg sentences instead of actually telling a damn story. Nabokov can do that to you--I think the way Vladimir put it was that his style is "overbearing," in terms of being an influence. Gaiman is the kind of writer who makes you want to put the book down and lock yourself in front of the keyboard for a few hours. He makes you see all kinds of things that are possible to do as a writer, and makes you want to try and see if you can do them. It's not a style he has that you want to copy--it's a complexity of character and story that you want to live up to. It made me want to sit back down and hammer away at Black Ribbon, where Nabokov just made me want to write what was, in my hands, nothing but exquisitely phrased whining (bless). I had the same reaction to Gaiman's Stardust, too--his writing makes you feel brave enough to try your own things out. Can't quite explain it any more clearly than that. And really, I think that's the kind of writer I'd want to be. Not necessarily the writer who sells the most or the writer with Harold Bloom's seal of approval (and never the twain shall meet on that one, trust me), but the writer who makes people want to read, and makes people want to write.