Month: September 2026

you know, you plans things

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And you think, man, light schedule, a morning off, easier work, very time limited, etc.

Should have gotten lots done.

Instead, I went to a funeral, drank and ate too much after, and lost two days to feeling like absolute shit.

Well, that’s a fuckin’ bummer.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 2158 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson (you know, in light of everything going on now in the Middle East, this actually sheds a whole lot of light on the behaviour of both Trump and Netanyahu, the pricks)
Comics: Strange Tales 13-15, Cloak And Dagger: Predator And Prey 1
Music: Happy Hippie Hits, Discs 1-5, Various (man, for a thing that was supposed to be full of hippie music, there's an awful lot of not even close, especially the Merle Haggard Okie From Muskogee, which is explicitly anti-hippie.  Weird.)

holy hell, a whole day

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Like, legit.

A whole day, no chores, no outings, nothing in particular that takes up any time except what I need to get done.

Editing, reading, relaxing.

Enjoying life, for once.

Silence is golden, and silence without need even better.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 2136 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The First 20 Hours, Josh Kaufmann
Comics: Strange Tales 9-12
Music: Happiness Is A Warm Gun, Sonic Youth (no, it's not. I'd ban all guns, if it were up to me.  I see no need for them in a civilized world.)

to speak low, but not a whisper

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This is the bane of my existence.

I am a soft-spoken guy. Apparently, I come across to a lot of people as chill, even though I’m typically in the midst of a depressive episode or existential crisis, brought on either by circumstance or introversion.

An old boss of mine was shocked when we were out having beers one night and I told him I didn’t smoke weed.

I guess he thought I was permanently stoned, which probably wasn’t helped by my personal email address at the time, which was intended to mean most evolved monkey, or the opposite, and had nothing to do with drugs.

I’m not anti-drug. I just don’t like the effect weed in particular has on me, and with my particular blend of emotional turmoil and addictive personality, I know that trying something addictive, even only psychologically, is probably a pretty slippery slope for me.

I do love mushrooms.

Psylocibin is the shit.

But it’s been probably almost twenty years since I last had any, and so I guess I’ll stick with a glass of wine or a nice craft beer. A well made cocktail is nice too, but only in moderation.

Everything in moderation, including moderation, if you ask me.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 2199 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The First 20 Hours, Josh Kaufmann
Comics: Strange Tales 5-8
Music: Happiness... Is Not A Fish You Can Catch, Our Lady Peace (good Canadian boys)

home day

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Crowfest was last night, though we sat on the patio and saw little of it.

There were ripped, sexy people playing with fire, and an Eastern European man balancing things with his tongue.

A hipster boy who somehow played guitar and keyboard at the same time.

And now, absolutely nothing.

A day, to edit.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, glory hallelujah.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1994 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The First 20 Hours, Josh Kaufmann
Comics: Cloak And Dagger v2 8-11
Music: Hangin' Tough, New Kids On The Block (this is a crime against art and music)

there i was, catching up

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But I’m in the doldrums, the part of the work that takes the longest.

Writing, without having to pause to review, takes the least time. I generally average about fifteen hundred words an hour, but that’s a bit of a misnomer.

If I’m hammering out a first draft, or stream-of-consciousness writing thoughts on particular chapter or theme, that time flies by. That hour is more like forty minutes.

Editing is editing. The time is the time. I say fifteen hundred words takes an hour, that means I sit and edit for an hour straight, no stopsies.

But the specific notes I make on scenes, reading the scene, jotting down changes I’d like to make, or ideas that I had, these come in tiny increments, and that hour suddenly equals two.

That’s where shit becomes an issue.

Someday, I’d like to be able to do six thousand words a day, but if it’s all this kind of stuff, that means eight straight hours of notes, which is a bit of a nightmare. Definitely can’t be done with a regular job on the side.

So, either I have to find a better way, less notes, more feel, more and faster iterations/drafts, or gut it out.

Or just get used to the fact that when this part hits…

I will fall behind.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1452 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: How To Read Nature, Tristan Gooley (perspective and systems and complex connections based on simple precepts, woo, sign me the fuck up.  You tickled my genius' g-spot with that one.)
Comics: Cloak And Dagger v2 4-7
Music: Hang-Ups, Goldfinger (terrific album)

epilogged

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Epilogued? What’s the best way to say that?

The return of complexity; we are preaching kindness as logic, and logic as kindness, but there are those still too lost to see past their own suffering.

Where does kindness stop? Is someone’s refusal to accept someone else’s kindness the line to draw? Or do we just hold back a moment to let them catch their breath and think it through?

Can cruelty be kindness? (Not actual cruelty, but hard truths, spoken softly, things people don’t want to hear, but needed to.)

Where do we draw the line? Where does compassion end?

For example, Donald Trump. In an absolute application of kindness, we’d show it to him as well, even though, at this point, it’s pretty clear he’s unredeemable. At this point, he just needs to be removed from office, and exorcised from society. Locked up, whatever. Out of power, along with all the other Republicans.

There’s still kindness in that, however. Maybe not for the Republicans, although we’re technically saving them from themselves.

But the greater kindness, to the rest of the world, the people being affected by their monstrosity.

The needs of the many, and all that.

Thanks, Spock, you’ve helped me prove my point – kindness is logic, logic, kindness.

We miss you, Mr. Nimoy, but thanks for what you left behind.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1463 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Jagannath, Karen Tidbeck (minus the body horror short stories, I rather enjoyed this.  Very accessible.  Nice.)
Comics: Invincible Universe: Battle Beast 12, Capes 10
Music: Ham Fisted, Local H (do these guys even have a bad album?  Same schtick, but it remains great.  Maybe their debut was a little weak.)

happy endings

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They’re kinda bullshit, aren’t they? I mean, all endings can be happy if they release the tension risen by the narrative, but still, complexity is better than 80s style TV wrap-ups.

I love it when a plan comes together, says Hannibal, chewing his cigar like cud. Yep, everything wrapped up nice, no real damage done. Lots of bullets fired and things blown up, cars flipping sideways over conveniently placed ramps, yet everyone walks away with nothing but a bump on the noggin and no concussion or post-injury brain bleeds or whatever.

Whatever.

People should end up scarred and broken. It gives them something to work on and overcome.

Like Scott Snyder wrote in American Vampire, scars on the skin aren’t bad things; they’re part of the story.

It’s a shame to filter them all away.

(Speaking of which, is that what’s behind this skincare craze, beyond corporate greed? People trying to make sure they have absolutely no blemishes, like an Instagram filter that scrapes away a person’s leathery skin, so when you see them and you think, yikes, what happened? Are you okay?)

Anyway, be proud of your aging skin. It got you where you are.

Nothing wrong with aging gracefully. Just me and Harrison Ford and Leonard Cohen. Looking like silver-haired gods.

(Them, not me. I’m but salt-and-pepper yet.)

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1597 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Jagannath, Karen Tidbeck
Comics: Invincible Universe: Battle Beast 10-11, Capes 8-9
Music: Hallowe'en, The Misfits