Me, of All People
Being a writer is a lot like being a murderer. No one fucking wants to hear about it unless they’ve done it too. Wouldn’t that be terrible? A Murder club where murderers got together for coffee, and argued about process, and art-over-form?
I can already imagine a tentative young novelist, meeting the wrong group in the same coffee house. A man with a scar on his face and a dead parrot on his shoulder, growling about the use of hammers and trap doors, while the young novelist murmurs something about the merits of the letters of C.S. Lewis.
Let’s talk about French Toast.
For those of you three who don’t recall, French Toast is my game design group I started with a few close friends. Over the last few weeks, I’ve made some definite leaps and bounds in the game’s overall design, but my time spent novelling is definitely causing a sort of Dangerous See-Saw of Progress; whenever the novel is working, the game becomes some fat kid, stuck on the end of the board and crying that it wants a proper turn.
Even so, Blueberry Jones had been showing us the artwork as it magically appears beneath her deft and nimble fingers. So progress continues, even if at a random and frenetic pace. It’s kind of like a glacier, with a giant, sputtering jet pack attached to the back of it. Kind of…
Well, it’s about time I wrap this up. I’ll log back in and do a victory post when I finally manage to finish this chapter.
The exciting part, is not only do I think I’ll finish it tonight, but I think I might actually have two chapters instead of one. Which is fucking amazing. I haven’t finished a piece of this book in months. It’s been so long since I’ve done something like that I wonder if I even remember how to end something properly. I’ll probably–