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On the side of a hill in the deep forest green, tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground,
blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain sleeps unaware of the clarion call.
On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves washes the grave with silvery tears,
a soldier cleans and polishes a gun.
War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions, generals order their soldiers to kill
and to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Say what?

Last night somebody tried to hack my blogger account. Go figure. I'm assuming it's because of my other blog which is more political, although less frequently updated.

I'm avoiding doing work. Why is this a writer's common complaint? Is it because there are so many shiny things in the world to go look at? Or just because we don't want to do the voodoo that we do somewhat well?

If you want to see how it should be done, John Sclazi just posted a fragment of his new story over at the Whatever. That's what we all feel like. If this isn't a definition of writer's block, it should be. Of course it is what I expect will be the opener of his novella "The Sagan Diaries." How that story comes about is in iteself a big story. Read the Whatever and you'll see what I mean.

So back to the grind. Today I get to help put up the Holiday Decorations for the Village (yeah, hard work!). I've already sorted applications for our Streets Dept. opening. Then I get to read all the financial statements to be up to speed for our meeting next week. There's two forms to fill out. And cleaning, the never ending struggle.

Here's another fragment from some story someplace in the future, "The room smelled too much of old farts and drying socks."

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