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Thursday, 4 December 2014

THE YEAR OF FLUID PLANS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

This year was set out as the year of fluid plans. I had one thing in mind.
   No matter what I do, it won't be a bad year if I don't publish anything.


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Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?! But wait a bit, I'm a writer, and...



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Shut it. That's the plan.



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I still wrote stuff.

   And I edited material that was not my own.
   I learned things.
   Briefly, I was ill.
   (Nothing serious.)
   Last week I cut my finger.
   Not a bad cut. One of those extremely shallow cuts you don't feel at the time. I have no clue how I cut myself. The item in question must have been super-sharp.
   And it barely scratched me.
   Yet scratch me it did. Later in the day, wear (and its pal, tear) attacked the skin and loosened this fissure. I felt nastiness then. So I looked.
   Ow.
   What the hell?
   Glass did that. Or very sharp metal.
   For a day, this was bad. The cut's location made things awkward. Next day was better. The day after, better still. I went on the hunt for the offending scythe.
   Never found it.
   Probably ended up in the recycling bin.
   Hell, I recycled a record amount of paper and metal in the past week. My daily quota of exercise was satisfied simply by carting the bin to the street.
   I did this in the manner of Herakles, succeeding at an incredible task. Maybe I was more like Mr Phelps, from MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE.
   This bin will self-destruct when the covert force turns up to empty it.
   Is there a theme to this post? Yes, and it is provided by Lalo Schifrin.


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Basically, advancedly, simply, complicatedly...
   I decided to go and do stuff. Things happened anyway, and I'd have needed to head off and do stuff even if I hadn't planned on making this year the year of fluid plans.
   Work was done. Words crawled across the page. I made changes. Along the way, I picked up another stray writer. Some of these scribblers stalk me and joke about stalking me.
   I did a blog post about that. No, I'll summarise instead of providing a link. Every click on the internet feels like stalking. Arctic research? I'm stalking ice. Prehistoric sharks? I'm stalking fossilised jaws.
   And these writers joke about stalking purely because stalking is no joke. We laugh it off as we aren't camped outside each other's homes.
   I say living in a mobile house is cheating. Or wise.
   Was I in the mood to be more organised? Yes. I could host an e-mail subscriber list on my blog.
   Except, the handy MailChimp, who keeps your information private according to privacy policy, hands out the name of the street where you live with every e-mail campaign you run.
   This lies in accord with US Federal legislation, and European Union rules, as well as regulations on distant planets.
   There are opt-outs and ways around, and you can take the chance on filling out the form with nothing but - for house number and - for street, but then you risk fines, imprisonment, and your own talk-show.
   Never wanted a talk-show.
   Anyway, some plans are lumpy-porridge-fluid and others are water. The e-mail sign-up created many complicated layers. I swept those layers away.
   What of the future? Who knows. Right now, I am preoccupied with READ TUESDAY 2014. After that, 2015 is going to be packed with that mysterious quality known as the great unknown. At least, I think that's what they call it. It might be named Montague.


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