I’m working on a short story for an anthology I’d like to be a part of, kind of about fucked-up things that happen to people when they interact with gods. It’s going slowly, but I’m enjoying writing it.
The beautiful butthole afghan is going well, I think. It’s got 16 motifs, eight in each color way, and I’ve got five of the first colorway done. I’m very excited to see if I, indeed, have enough yarn to do all eight. It certainly looks like it, though, and that pleases me.
I’ve started a new podcast, The Magnus Archives. I’m not very far into it, but the episode I listened to yesterday, “The Piper,” took my breath away. It’s about World War I and about a mysterious piper that plays on the battlefield and only some soldiers can hear him. There is a moment when the narrator realizes that they’re somewhat near Bremen and he kind of mulls that over–whether this piper is that piper or what–and he says something about how he wonders if they, these soldiers, are the children of Bremen, lost to carelessness and greed, or if they are the rats who annoyed the rich people in the first place. I’m paraphrasing. That’s not exactly right.
But I gasped when I heard it. And I didn’t know if I could go on listening or if I needed to stop or what. It was extraordinary.
One drawback to being a writer is that you experience narratives as a set of skills and tricks you want to either emulate or feel you pull off better. It’s nice to still have moments where you’re just caught up in the story and you’re not playing “scrutinize how this works so you can steal it. Or try to.”