Final decision on Kushiel's Dart: A base story worthy of Guy Gavriel Kay, told with little of his skill. (I like to think he would have shunned the sensationalist sex that did nothing to add to the plot, as well.) That aside, it was a good story, with moments especially in the finale of the sort of noble tragedy in the face of inevitability that Dee likes so much. I really could have done without the first third of the book. I'm sorry, I just don't care about her training as a prostitute, and frankly, the details of it weren't important to the rest of the story.

Oh, and I still hate first-person fantasy. For a very clear and simple reason - it removes what I love about the genre. I live for the epic story, for the scope and the sweep. Read: Multiple POVs. Can't do that with first-person.

I'm reading Kerry Greenwood now. Phryne Fisher. How I love smart, sassy 1920s girls.

One of those days. One of those weeks, actually. One more cup of coffee, and I'll be up all night...

WHO'S WITH ME??

*daubs warpaint, rambo-charges the kitchen*

Claire: What are you reading? [picks up Kushiel's Dart, which I gave into despite misgivings for similar-style-to-mine reasons - strong female protag, lots of politics]
Me: Trash.
Claire: [reading the cover] But look, Robert Jordan describes it as "a sophisticated fantasy, intricately plotted and a fascinating read".
Me: Yes, it's sophisticated, intricate, fascinating trash.

Help, help, my bra is attacking me.

You needed to know that, right?

Spruiker update.

He's Canadian. He just said: "Come in and see what it's all aboot."

Hee. I don't make this up, ladies and gentlemen.

Spruikers do sometimes make my work day more entertaining.

("I don't make this up, ladies and gentlemen. I just sound like I do.")

I just poured coffee all over myself.

Fucked if I know how.

Warm woollen kettles and mittens on kittens.

I've finally figured out how to use the interesting anime-chick mittens that the Bunnies gave me for my birthday. There's a thumbhole! ...in a totally non-porny way. And then my hands just become these big balls of red wool with fingers poking out the top, and I really do feel like a Japanese pop girl. At least from the elbows down.

When I put them on over my bag-lady fingerless gloves, they keep my hands toasty warm. And I can still type. This rocks.

Now I want schnitzel with noodles. Damn.

Poster for heavy-duty outdoorwear: "Wherever snot freezes, we'll be there."

I laughed for a whole block.

I just screamed with laughter for fifteen minutes straight.

The culprit: The Gamerz Translation of LotR.

My favourite part:
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Uruk Hai [arrow] Boromir
Boromir: "****ing campers"

I guess this is one of those learning experiences, but note to self:

Never again give your home phone number to an author. Or your mobile. It just leads to them calling you all the fucking time. ("You've changed my comma on page 274 into a semi-colon, is that entirely correct?")

Email. Email is your friend.

End note.

I hate the ticket inspector who pinged me thirty seconds after I sat down on the tram. I mean, I only got on the damn thing because that whole idea about hitch-hiking up Elizabeth Street didn't work out and I was sick and exhausted. And then I have to strain my creativity explaining why I didn't have a ticket and how I was just about to buy one and then I got to the machine and realised I didn't have any change anyway and then I had to get out at Bourke Street and walk the rest of the way.
 
So it's my own stupid fault and I was lucky not to cop a fine, but I still sulked for six blocks.

Me: I'm motivated! I want to be out of here and heading to work by 9:30!
Clock: It's 9:30 now. And you're still in your slippers and you haven't eaten breakfast.
Me: ...fuck that then. *languishes*

What on earth prompts people to just blithely cross roads without looking? Especially in the centre of Melbourne?
 
Yeah, OK, I did it myself in Canberra once, on Northborne, but that was one incident of idle brainlessness, and though there have been many such incidents since, thankfully none have involved major roads.
 
And also, yeah, OK, I am a gung-ho J-walker with road-crossing temerity to make Jen tremble (but she's a big softie) and I'm known to brave the displeasure of the flashing red man with flippant regularity, but I don't start sauntering across Lonsdale (seven lanes, no island in the middle) while the light is going amber.
 
I watched in bewilderment as not only did the idiot woman in question not run the rest of the way, she also didn't get beeped at. And she wasn't that much of a looker.
 
And then I waited patiently for the little green man to say strut.

Just to prove that Anthony is sicker than we all thought... his version of "Blaze of Glory".
 
I wake up in the morning and I realise that I'm dead.
I'm a'six feet underground with a bullet in my head.
I don't remember getting shot.  It's hard to understieahn.
I'm a blah blah blaher, a blah blah blaher, and something that rhymes with "mieahn!"
I'm going down on a ninja turtle.
*rest of song disappears in raucous laughter*
 
(In his defense, he maintains the original was "shot down by" a ninja turtle, but when he was performing this the first time, it was as above, so that's the way it stays, sonny.)

I'm a big girl now I'm drunk.

I'm currently almost finished Memoirs of a Geisha and... well, I'm slightly disappointed.

Aside: Saw King Arthur last night and that was a bit disappointing too. This is getting to be a regular thing. I think I need to work on my standards of storytelling, or I'm just going to be disappointed by media for the rest of my life.

Anyway. Geisha. So we all know that Geisha are fabulous because they are educated and clever and it's not just about the sex, right? Well paint me stupid, because if I was just going by Memoir, I'd think that no, actually, it was all about the sex. The thing that seems to be making our heroine-narrator a famous Geisha isn't her much-vaunted cleverness, just the fact that she's a very pretty 15-year-old virgin with startling eyes. And the older Geisha, who's held up as the epitome of everything wonderful in Geishaness, still seems to be of the opinion that truly clever conversation with a man involves making rather direct comments about yourself naked.

Honestly. If I couldn't flirt more intelligently than that, I'd have to commit seppuku.

And yeah, they're thoroughly accomplished young ladies, inasmuch as they are taught to dance and play six different instruments and perform the tea ceremony, but are they taught anything of actual interest in developing their minds? Of course not. Mr Darcy wouldn't consider them accomplished at all. Not sure I do, either.

Frankly, from this source, Geisha parties sound to me like the cheerleaders entertaining the football team.

Our fridge is a testament to our yuppie modern lifestyle. Or something.
 
Rough estimate of contents: jar of Tandoori sauce, 3L of milk, orange juice, grape juice, packet of cheese, two bottles of wine.
 
We will live on liquids alone! (I don't even like cheese. Or the Tandoori sauce.)

While I'm redefining things - new definition of funny: in Prisoner of Azkaban (the movie) when the swooning Malfoy is being carted away from his stupidity-engendered hippogriff injury, and he mutters over Hagrid's shoulder: "You're going to regret this. And your bloody chicken."

And your bloody chicken.

Cue: Dee laughing like a madwoman in the back of a theatre full of kiddies. Not alone though. Mama Evans was cackling too. Easy to see where she gets it from.

New definition of unfair:
- Not getting a hug from cousin due to him having a cold and not wanting to pass it on.
- Getting the cold anyway.

"Lovely flowing writing style with a great sense of atmosphere created. A few grammatical errors, minor viewpoint slips and some nit-picking with regard to clarity don't detract from the fact that this manuscript is close to publication standard." - Louise Cusack's report on my EnVision MS.

I can't even gloat. I'm too full of OMG-yay-squee-beam.

Deflated somewhat by Stephanie-fantasy acquisition editor for Voyager-Smith saying she didn't buy single volume fantasy.

But I'll show her. Now I just need another 80,000 words.

No worries.

So, I'm a munchkin and in case anyone missed it, the reason viscerate.com went down for 24-72 hours (depending on your ISPs propagation speed) was because the domain rego lapsed and I didn't know about it. Because the 90, 60 and 30 day warnings went to an email address that doesn't exist any more.

*facepalms*

Hi from Brisbane. Today I walked down a Southbank in the sun wearing a wife-beater and trousers and I was almost hot.

I love this town. (No boots, though...)