Okay, thanks to the amazingly interesting combination of Lunacon (pico-con-report – fun, membership is declining, the management hopes there’ll be a next time), moving house, and a certain kilted raccoon and his “friends” I’ve been mostly out of touch for a while. And what do you do while I’m gone? You go and start a movement. Not even an honest, prune-generated one, but a literary movement.
Honestly, you people are dangerous.
Okay, I was probably kind of sort of part of that movement before it started. I’m not as overtly anti-authority as Sarah, I’m much more the Australian subversive style that smiles and nods and pretends to pay attention before going off and doing what I always intended to do – while twisting the rules into pretzels to put what I intended into at least a gray zone.
Funnily enough this shows in my writing. I can’t follow genre rules without something twisting. I’m chronically incapable of refraining from the ancient art of taking the piss (although it tends to emerge in ways that leave people scratching their heads wondering what in heck I’m on about now. Or maybe just on (I can answer that question. The narcoleptic’s cocktail gets me all the really good drugs. Meth’s first cousin to wake up, one of the -epams to go to sleep to, antidepressants because being chronically short of sleep causes depression, as well as miscellaneous other stuff to deal with some of the other cascading malfunctions. They’re good drugs. They take me from walking zombie to moderately functional.). Sometimes what happens is funny. Sometimes it’s more like the One True measure of software quality – WTFs per minute. As a tester in the day job, I’m very familiar with that one.).
No matter what, it always ends up not fitting into anyone’s nice, neat marketing categories, and it breaks all those establishment rules about what’s supposed to happen.
I should confess here: I tried to write a grey goo story once. It turned into something else. I’m still not sure what, but it certainly wasn’t gray goo.
Of course, I’ve now guaranteed that I won’t be truly Human Wave either, even though I think the whole concept encapsulates what I end up doing. It’s just that I don’t do it deliberately (no-one ever believes me when I say this). I’m not trying to exclude myself – I just have a sneaking suspicion I was surfing that wave long before it got a name, and once it gets a box, I won’t be able to find the freaking thing (I’ve never been able to find the box – which makes it difficult to think outside it, since you have to know where inside the box is to do that).
Okay. Maybe I should just refrain from posting when brain-dead, overtired, or surrounded by teh kittehs (One of the pair is between me and the screen, the other one is on the top of my chair, looking down on me). Nah. If I did that, I’d never post.
Oh well. It is the Mad Genius Club after all.
Now off to surf that wave. Metaphorically of course. I’m not into actual surfing, what with the wonky sense of balance and all. Besides, just try finding a good wave in rural Pennsylvania.