Me, of All People

February 2010

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.

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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…

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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–

Todd Rogers