First and Last and Wordle

Lately I’ve been playing around with Wordle. It takes a piece of writing and pulls out the most common words in a piece of writing and applies some algorithmic magic to generate a word cloud, a bit like the tag cloud I keep at the bottom of this site.

It’s better-randomized, though, and more “cloud”-like. Sometimes its output takes a little finessing, but I’m a little bit fascinated with the way it seems to condense stories into important flashes of impression. Given First and Last and Always, for example, it almost seems to take a life of its own.

Every Line

Every line is like a symphony,
Every word a song,
But if you try to force them,
Then every word is gone.

You Should Post Some More

“You should post some more,” she tells me, running her fingers through my hair. “People’ll start thinking you’re dead.” Y’should post s’more. People’ll staht thinkin’ ya dead. She lilts the words, just a little, her light Georgia accent not nearly strong enough to drawl.

I’m sleeping. I know it. She is the girl in my dreams, for a long time the only one and even now the only one who stayed. Not a muse, she is my friend and I suppose my sometime lover, a private blessing born somewhere deep in my subconscious mind. It’s been nearly eight years since I last heard her voice aloud. Really it belongs to Evette, to the girl I loved in high-school, to the girl who taught me to love myself, but my girl-dream kept it for me and made it her own.

I turn my head a little in her lap, kissing at the palm of her hand before I open my eyes again. The summer has tanned her since I saw her last, but only just a shade, and the light brings out the dark, ruby fire in her auburn hair. “Tybalt doesn’t want to play today,” I murmur.

“I think you’re just happy right here,” she laughs, slipping her hands away, and her warm, black jeans press against my cheek. I don’t deny it, don’t even try, just make happy meowling noises up at her. Writing something means waking up, at least, leaving her behind again. She comes and goes as it pleases her; it might be months before I see her again. Part of me always worries that, one day, she might not come back.

She knows what I’m thinking, though, and she lifts my head, bending over me to press a kiss against my lips. “How long’ve you known me?”

“Seven years.”

“And I’m always here for you.”

Boiling Water

Even boiling water grows cold without a fire.

Real Artists Ship.

Writing is like riding a bicycle. You never completely forget how to do it, but if you stop pedalling, and coast, sooner or later you fall off.

Telling yourself these things is easy; really knowing them is hard. Living them is nearly painful. It’s always been one of the most frustrating parts of my life as a writer: I write in little bursts and pieces, mostly when I’ve just barely woken up and my dreams are still dying in the morning light. Some of my friends can write a few thousand words in a session; I count myself lucky if I clear a few thousand words in a month. Even keeping that in mind, though, having dry spells that long makes me uncomfortable. It’s bad discipline.

I’ve been gone for a month now, and I don’t really have much of an excuse. I let my water get cold. I stopped pedalling for a while, and I fell off.

I’m back, though, or at least I think I am. I have a few projects burning, most importantly the next Tybalt story; I promised someone I would have it finished by YaoiCon.

Sit tight; I’ll try to share something soon.

Really, They Happen By Accident

Rio frustrates me, almost more than any of my other characters, because Rio has no stories. He really does happen by accident, drifting comfortably along from one moment to the next. I’ve talked to him about it, as it were, and he’s simply happier that way, even if it means I wouldn’t normally share him with the world.

There’s something endearing about him, though. Rio feels infectiously, wonderfully right, and every time he stops by to visit, I never have the heart to turn him away. He is a strange and beautiful person, and I adore him for it. Even though all I really have are snapshots of him, I’m going to share him anyways, in hopes that you’ll enjoy his company, too.