““Well,——me,” he said. “A ——ing wizard. I hate ——ing wizards!”
“You shouldn’t —— them, then,” muttered one of his henchmen, effortlessly pronouncing a row of dashes.”—I love this joke, (Mort, Terry Pratchett)
He’s asleep in the chair by the downstairs front window right now. (The pic is from earlier today; look at the sparkler our friends at Germaines stuck in the mousse cake, isn’t that crazed? They also played “Happy Birthday” at a volume that would have embarrassed a three-year-old.)
His waking/sleeping cycle has been off for days, due to work. Normally he’s the Owl of the Owl Springs Partnership: up all night writing, heads for bed when the sun rises. (We do find time to fraternize, believe me). He’s been trying to knock himself back onto more-or-less-dayshift for a few days now, knowing the birthday was coming and that he wanted to be conscious and useful during business hours.
We headed out this afternoon to do some errands in our shopping town, and after that raise a glass or two, and maybe have some dinner. This we did: Chinese appetizers for me and fried black pudding for him, then steak for me and Chinese shredded beef for him. Around 7:30ish, our ride came to bring us home.
Now Himself is snoring gently in my Comfy Chair, having turned on the documentary he wanted me to see (a thing about Hitler’s drug problems, useful in terms of general knowledge and the writing he’s doing at the moment, but otherwise the kind of thing that makes you keep covering your eyes and going ewwwwww. Seriously, I could have done without the bull semen).
Now that he’s asleep I can very quietly type what I suspect a lot of you know. He knows it at some level, but (I think) doesn’t often say it to himself because he knows it’s true, and no more needs cognitive reinforcement than most of us would need to remind ourselves that the sun comes up.
God, how I love this man. How glad I am he was born. This world would be nothing much without him. And the joke (for it is one, one that I share with you) is that if I wrote this and put it in a card under his pillow, he might not notice it, because when he falls in the bed after the end of a writing session he’s wrecked, when he gets up he’s intent on the shower, and it’s not his turn to change the sheets this week. But if I put it here, he’ll find it.
Best friend, colleague, partner, sounding board, ever-sound editor and eagle-eyed proofreader, lodestone to my moral compass, irrepressible loon and dingbat, magnificent lover, endlessly revelatory pillow-partner, late-night confidant, cuddle-bunny, gadfly, Jiminy Cricket, critic and assessor, fellow fan of fellow writers, connoisseur of airports and railway stations, of fragrances, wines and cuisines, chef and cook (depending on circumstances), fellow tourist, co-storyteller and raconteur; where would I be without you?
NOWHERE MUCH. The last twenty-five years of creativity, and more, have you at their base.
"Happy birthday, you thing from another world you."
“If we think of the douchebag as a social identity as much as an accusation, as a subject with a distinctive persona locatable within the categories of race, class, gender and sexuality, then we find that the term carries a remarkably precise definition.
The douchebag is someone — overwhelmingly white, rich, heterosexual males — who insist upon, nay, demand their white male privilege in every possible set and setting.
The douchebag is always a white guy. But he is more than that. The douchebag is the demanding 1%, and the far more numerically significant class of white, heterosexist men who ape and aspire to be them. Wall Street guys are douchebags to be sure, but so is anyone looking to cash in on his white male privilege.
This narrowness of categorization — perhaps unique in the history of America’s rich history of racial and sexual slurs — is what makes the word douchebag such a potentially useful political tool.”—
In a kind of digital version of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, tenaciously dull videogame truthers have met their match in an inexhaustibly interested chat program coded 50 years ago.
On Friday the 24th, at 6pm I’ll be doing a SIGNING in Paris. Well, technically in Vincennes, at the Millepages. Librairie 91, rue de Fontenay Vincennes. The page is here. No tickets or anything needed, just turn up and I will sign your books or comics or arm.
Hello! I've recently been re-listening to the YW series and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your writing style. You really have a beautiful way with words. When I was a kid I loved the story and now as an adult I can appreciate the incredible work put into this series and this universe. This is starting to sound silly but I really mean it! Hope your day is fabulous!
Thank you! The audiobooks are so beautifully put together: it’s been a privilege to have Christina Moore bringing her talents to them right through the series. Meanwhile, thanks for the nice words about the series. Stick around… we’re not done yet. :)
So this isn't really a question but the other day I started following you because I saw your response on a text post and thought it (along with your blog when I checked it out) was really cool. But I just realized you are also the author of one of my favorite book series from when I first started reading! So I just wanted to say thank you so much! Your books are wonderful and definitely some of my all time favorites :)
Thank you very much! It’s the Net Force books we’re talking about, yes? Those were a lot of fun to do. :) Glad you liked them!