The river of my working day is broken by islands of quiet computation, holes in the current of tasks while finished frames are rendered, pixel by pixel. As I type these words, all of my minions are busy, patience bars creeping across their screens as fans hums and drives chortle.

I twiddle my thumbs. I look out the window. I trawl the web.

...Pretty pathetic intro copy, eh? Where's the hook? There's no hook. I'm just bored. I promise to address the following thrilling subjects in the body text below:

#1. News: Doorbell Possessed by Dead Sit-Com
#2. Follow Up: K5 Crapflood Challenge
#3. Preview: My Next Non-Fiction Story
#4. Update: Leaps in Baby Locomotion
#5. Despite having five digits on my hand, I do not have five things to say. So, I shall conclude by discussing my thumb.

Tantalised? Well, mildly curious? Aw, screw it -- I don't care. Go read something else.


My Thumb

The best thing about my thumb is that is it oppable. Also: that I have another one just like it, only backwards. Who could fail to love Jesus when you've got two fuckin' thumbs? (Religious Disclaimer: I am not a Christian.)


From Colonel Standers to Johnny Walker

My wee sprite of a daughter has begun to discover walking. Concentrating on it doesn't seem to work for her however, because she invariably gets frustrated with all the attention required for balance management and so quickly drops down to all four for crawling. But, if distracted, can now meander along for a number of steps before catching on to what's going on and -- like Wile E. Coyote noticing that is standing on thin air -- she looks surprised, and then falls.

Like most things in this world, my little girl thinks this is hilarious. She also thought it was hilarious the other day when she escaped from under my...well, more or less watchful eye -- and decided to climb the stairs all by herself.

"Where's the baby?" This is not a good question to have to ask oneself. I ducked down and looked under the coffee table, then checked behind the chesterfield before rushing into the foyer. "Crap!"

"Da-da da!" called Ingrid from the stairs, pausing mid-crawl to wave.

I rushed up behind the stairs after her, which made her giggle and hurry. She thoughts I was chasing her, that it was a fun game. Just as I came up behind her, she misjudged her balance and tumbled backward off the riser. And into my lap.

"Bad baby," I said.

But she wasn't paying attention. She had spotted the reflection of the television in the nearby mirror: a cloud of tiny CG faeries were fluttering around a baby in a diaper commercial. "Birds!" gasped Ingrid.

And so yet another safety-gate has been erected. Walking through our house is now that much more like running a hurdle race. I am a clumsy horse. The other day I almost tripped on one gate, and I bucked my rider, a blue and white dinner plate. Smashy-smashy. (Political Disclaimer: I am not an Anarchist.)


Type What You Know

In an effort to improve my storytelling craft, I have been pushing myself to write more frequently. One recently posted tale elicited this comment: "There's something very clinical and detached about your style...it almost makes me think of the internal monologues of a robot trying to live among humans."

And so, in an effort to address this point, I am trying to recount a tale in which I put a little more of myself on the line.

In past non-fiction adventures I have described events of sweet revenge and cunning victory. In contrast, this new story features this cheeseburger being betrayed, humiliated and ultimately discarded like an old gym sock. No one gets even, and no one wins. It is the story of a test I failed utterly, a golden opportunity I fruitlessly squandered.

If you're a reader who has enjoyed these postings in the past, consider this a teaser trailer or something. If you're a reader who hates my long-winded drivel, consider this a warning. Next post: CheeseburgerBrown cries. (Sexuality Disclaimer: I'm not gay.)


Fruits of the Crapflood

My science fiction short story Two Moments of Invention is currently being picked apart in two different net-based critiquing forums. The Critters Workshop is free, and the Online Writing Workshop for SF, Fantasy and Horror costs a few dollars per month (I won a six-month membership in the infamous K5 Crapflood Challenge of November 2003).

They each use a different system to track the ratio of critiques to submissions in an effort to force participation. Critters asks that you review an overage of one story per week in order to retain your submitting priviledges, while the SFF Workshop lets you accrue review points which are not related to time, exchangeable at a rate of four points per submission.

Critters makes a batch of stories available each Wednesday, with reviews due within 7 days. In contrast, the SFF Workshop has a long, (by default) unsorted list of submissions covering the last three months, which users are free to pick through, contributing critiques whenver they choose.

I'll reserve my final judgement until my story has been mauled by the hounds of both sites, but my impression thus far is that the Critters system has a far better ratio of signal to noise (or signal to silence). Where each Critters submissions in the archives typically has two dozen or so in-depth reviews attached from the same week, many of the older stories in the SFF Workshop pool have just three or four shallow reviews dribbled in over a three month period.

Once I've run these two critiquing gauntlets, I am going to do a re-write of the story and then try submitting it to some print publications. I think that, once polished, my story may garner some personal (non-form) rejection letters with helpful hints. (Meanwhile, also on the subject of print publication: I am still waiting to hear when the book that is reprinting Traffic Zoology comes out -- final galleys were sent back to the editor over a month ago.) I will also post the rewrite here, in case anyone's interested in the evolution of a short story.

Speaking of evolution: the second part of my Crapflood Challenge prize has also arrived, but the place to tell of it is not in this section but below. (Editorial Disclaimer: this is really sloppy form. I mean, really!) Behold:


My Doorbell was Possessed by a Dead Sit-Com

One day this week my doorbell was possessed by the spirit of a dead sit-com. In a fit of raging deus ex machina, it passed an entire day presenting timely solutions to our every problem.

It all started when I volunteered to a mission to meet a sporadically tardy friend at the subway station. I knew he might be grotesquely late, or right on time. So, I stood a good chance of having to wait for a while. I was cursing the fact that I had just run out of book to read, pulling on my scarf and heading for the door when the bell rang: ding, dong.

I opened the door and was handed a small cardboard cube wrapped in international labels, tape and animal welfare stickers. "What is it?" asked my wife.

"Looks like it's from Loojie, the vet's wife," I said, turning it over.

"No no no," corrected my wife, pointing to the return address. "It's probably from that local guy. What's his name?"

I squint, confused. "Local guy? What do you mean?"

"Local Dodger?"

"Localroger! Of course it is. You're right." I struggled fruitlessly with the package until my wife brought me scissors. I freed from white, stark softcover from the protective foam, and tucked it into my jacket. "Love you gotta go," I said.

So now I'm reading The Metamorphosis of Prime Intellect by Roger Williams, a man desperately in need of an illustrator.

But the doorbell was to speak again, in an equally timely and helpful way. My wife was sitting in the livingroom fighting with our printer, helping our soon-to-be sister-in-law make her wedding invitations and RSVP cards. I had just come through the door, and was stamping the snow off my boots. "Fuckity fuck-truck!" said my wife.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "The printer just died, and we still have twenty more envelopes to make."

(My daughter seemed unconcerned. She walked along holding on to the coffee table, picking up stray pieces of paper and trying to put them into her mouth.)

"That sucks," I agreed. Just then: ding, dong.

I opened the door and a guy in brown handed me a four hundred dollar mobile inkjet printer. He asked me to sign a bulky PDA, and then he went away. I closed the door and wandered back into the livingroom. "What is it?" asked my wife.

"It's a free printer, with a chargeable battery and BlueTooth card for cable-free operation," I told her, reading the manifest.

"Shut up," said my wife, not unkindly.

"I'm serious," I said.

"Shut up!" said my wife.

"It's true, though," I assured her, showing her the box. It was my prize for winning the HP/Graphics Canada Juried Digital Art Contest for 2003, which I'd pretty much forgotten about. "Good timing, eh?"

My wife kissed me enthusiastically and then set to tearing open the box and breezing through the manual as she set it up. "The doorbell is our answer to everything," she said, grinning. "What wil it serve up next?"

The answer: rotisserie chicken and barbecued ribs from Swiss Chalet. They fucked up our order, however, and so they were obliged to return later with our drinks. We were thirsty, but our meal was free. (Health Disclaimer: eating pork ribs may have deleterious effects on your health. This goes double for pigs.)


Epilogue

That's it, and my render is just about done. Three minutes to go, and then I have to get back to work for a while. I'm working extra late, in order to give myself Thursday off to snag a few last minute Christmas items and see the last Lord of Rings installment with LittleStar.

PostScript: the paperwork has been processed, and old schoolhouse is now officially mine! We move in February.

The chime has sounded, the render is done. I am called back to my station. Goodnight, citizens, and good morrow. (Disclaimer Disclaimer: there is no disclaimer here.)