I have been away for a short while, but worry not! I have returned to make this small list of updates, and give my opinions on things if anybody cares.
Why Haven’t You Updated, Motherfucker?
Visiting relatives, financial worries, and blah. Stuff. I don’t like to write about stuff as it happens, because it comes across as whining or a purposeful attempt to depress people, so we’ll just call it stuff and I’ll promise to write again as soon as I can. I have an entry all ready to go for tomorrow about it being my birthday. Enjoy that.
Also, I think I’m going to crawl into a hole for a while and really try to finish Gray Bolt just as soon as I can. Whenever “I can” turns out to be. I feel really crappy about leaving that unfinished. There’s a lot of stuff going on, and unfortunately the stuff must be seen to. I will probably finish “Ironwood” before I finish Gray Bolt, so look forward to that… whenever that may be… or else.
Are You Going to Accept Donations?
It depends on how the stuff works out. If the stuff works out one way, then no I will absolutely not be accepting donations. It makes me feel sleazy and weird. If it works out the other way, oh please oh please may I have your money in appreciation for my writing/give you sexual pleasure in exchange for currency?
Just as a personal preference, I would rather not. I have nothing against people who do.
I Saved A Baby
Not really, but kind of. The neighbor kid was over here, and rolled an exercise ball at my nephew. He had also put an Indiana Jones hat (mine) on my nephew, and was singing the Indiana Jones theme song while he did it. This was, I believe, an attempt to re-enact the opening sequence of “Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
I kicked the ball out of the way before it could scare the crap out of my already crying nephew, and went on a five minute rant about how the neighbor child is my very own personal Dennis the Menace.
Sometimes he just comes over here and wants to hang out… and I’m like “Dennis, you’re 10 years old. I’m 23. Go home.”
Then he’s like “My parents don’t like it when I’m home because I break things.”
So I’m like “Ugh… go ahead and play Diablo II… and just don’t make any noise or anything.”
Little League Schmittle League
I am also taking my little brother to his little league practices as of late. It’s very fun, because it’s nothing at all like when I was in Little League.
Did you know I can’t throw a ball more than twenty or perhaps thirty yards? Want to know why? Because my clavicle broke when I was born and my parents never had it set. Consequently, my shoulders are formed such that I can’t lift my arms over my head and can’t make the full motion necessary to throw a ball. Yes, this is similar to why John McCain’s arms don’t work.
Also, I had asthma. Yes. Asthma. Want to know why I’ve never mentioned I having asthma before? It’s because I used to think I just had small lungs, and very low tidal volume. I found out I have asthma because my mom just told me a few months ago. Apparently she was worried the medication would have made me look “weird” so I never got it. Hey, if you’re kid falls over and suffocates because his lungs are collapsing, that’s all well and good, but nobody needs a fucking “weird looking” kid that’s just breathing all over the place. Seriously, screw weird-looking kids that do nothing but breath all the regular looking kids’ air.
Anyway, there’s a kid at my brother’s practices that goes out into the outfield (I almost think it’s not worth it to have people in the outfield in Little League, since kids just get bored out there) that likes to pretend he’s a crow. I have decided I like this child.
On “A Memory of Light” being Split
In tenth grade, my biology teacher told us about a mountain man he knew, when he worked a summer at a dude ranch. While I don’t recall all the particulars, the important part was this: the mountain man got up one morning, and fell down from a heart attack. When the EMT’s went to put him in the ambulance to take him to the hospital, they couldn’t cut away his red one-piece Long John’s, because his body hair had grown through the material and could not be separated from the fabric. He just hadn’t found time to change his Long John’s in the past ten or so years.
My reaction was, “Wow, that guy must have been a fantastic at mountain… manning.”
So while yes, I would love to have “A Memory of Light” delivered to me in the next two minutes by Felicia Day dressed in a school girl outfit, after being completed by a Robert Jordan ghola inside of a time-warp to the Dune universe, I have a sense of reality. Brandon Sanderson isn’t a crazy hooched up mountain man who has no commitments other than trapping beavers, shooting young upstarts with salt-rock shells, making clothes out of deerskin, and acquiring a beard full of different animal parts. Even with all his other commitments, he’s still pumping out words at an incredible rate. So many words in fact, that they cannot all be bound in a single volume. Rather than being angry at the laws of physics, I believe that this is fine, and I can live with that since I have come to trust the man’s artistic senses and think he’s doing a hell of a job.
My only worry is that this will delay the release of Alcatraz 3 somehow, which while being written for children is a series I very much enjoy, probably as a result of the brain damage I suffered from being dead on delivery.
Did I mention that part yet? I was born dead. I think that explains a lot of how I behave, personally.
