Let Me Digress

Kathryn Hore - Writer

Tag: Writing words (page 1 of 3)

Endings. (In which I enjoy arguing over bad horror flicks while drinking too much wine.)

I’ve thinking about endings. Story endings. 

See, a horror loving friend had a movie night the other night and, as one does, decided to stick on an “old” and “classic” movie. Did she pick something like, oh, James Whale’s Frankenstein? What about Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Perhaps The Shining or The Exorcist, those 70s classics? But no. She didn’t even go Hammer Horror from that period, which I would’ve loved. Look, I’m not picky. I’d consider the original Freddy Krueger Nightmare on Elm St a classic. 

But my friend is significantly younger than me, so what she picked was… The Mist. From 2007. Hmmm.

Anyway, after having some severe words with her about what constitutes a ‘classic’, or even ‘old’, and after said friend mocked me in return for being middle-aged and out of touch – all undoubtedly true – we all sat down with several bottles of wine (necessary for this film) to watch it. Then we all got into semi-drunken arguments about the ending. As a bunch of horror readers, writers and pop culture consumers are wont to do. 

Oh, and before I forget: spoilers ahead. I don’t know if it’s possible to spoil a move that’s a dozen years old, especially in a blog post titled “Endings”, but I did see someone put a spoiler warning on an online forum discussion of Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo once, and that book’s well over 170 years old, so what do I know about modern spoiler culture?

Um… where was I headed, before I paused to roll my eyes at spoiler warnings?

That’s right. The Mist, circa 2007. If you don’t know the ending by now, here’s my rendition of it: after surviving the endless horrors that usually occur in a Stephen King tale, the protagonist and his plucky band of survivors (read: a nice older couple, a love interest, and his 8yo son, the protection of whom has hitherto been his entire character motivation), give up and he shoots them all dead. This is instead of letting the monsters get to them, or something. Even though they’ve risked far more multiple times than stepping outside of the car into the mist and seeing if they maybe can walk it. Anyway, thirty seconds after he literally kills his own child, the army rolls in and he finds they were all saved after all. Oh, the horror.

People hated this ending. 

I hated this ending. 

But my movie-night-hosting-friend *loved* this ending, and knows just how controversial that stance is, hence her desire to ply everyone with wine and stick this particular film on. She loves the ending because it’s grim and brutal and horror. She also loves a good argument. Her argument to those of us who hated the ending was we’re just not tough enough to cope with a downer ending and wanted some kind of happy fairytale finale. 

Let me tell you, in horror writing circles, thems fighting words. 

So I’m here to tell you why I hated the ending and it’s nothing to do with not being able to deal with grim, brutal, horror movie endings. It’s because that particular ending is entirely unearned in a storytelling sense. It makes no narrative sense. It is plonked on purely for shock value.

In a story, your ending has to be earned. That version of The Mist is a damn fine movie which I absolutely loved… right up until the end, which destroyed it. Because the ending was unearned and unrelated to the actual story. If the protagonist had been struggling throughout the film with a dark part of himself that didn’t want to protect or care for his kid, while still loving him, then having to shoot the child dead right when he’d finally embraced a protector’s role would have been a truly tragic, gut-wrenching end. 

That’s not what happened. There was no fatal flaw in the protagonist that he finally gave in to which provided our tragedy. It’s one thing for the external end goal to be survival, but they fail and all die. But story endings are wrapped up in the protagonist’s internal journey, their character arc, and this ending made zero sense to any character’s arc in the film.

Which is a shame, because otherwise it’s a note-perfect flick which shows that no matter what external monster horrors threaten on the outside, the worst horror will always come from inside human beings. 

Maybe that’s why I hated the ending so much. It destroys a film I otherwise loved. Anyway, I haven’t seen the more recent Netflix remake, nor have I read the original King novella it’s based on. I’m not likely to watch/read either after the scarring left by version 2007.

So here’s the lesson of the tale, folks… make your ending count for the characters, not merely for the external plotline. That’s where it’ll hit your readers with a real emotional punch. 

And for the love of the old gods, do not stick on this flick when having a semi-drunken movie night with a bunch of horror movie fans. Please.  

Time is not my friend

What’s the first rule of blogging? You don’t talk about blogging…

Actually, that’s not in the least bit true.  I’ve just stuck it in there because it’s late in the afternoon, I’m seriously sleep deprived, and making awkward, meaningless references to 90s Brad Pitt movies is the kind of thing I do when I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for several days straight, but still can’t convince anyone to let me drip hot wax all over their quivering naked flesh…

Um. Sorry. Wrong blog.

I did mention I’m sleep deprived, didn’t I?

See, the Fight Club reference would work if this post were in any way about Fighting, or Clubs, or Fight Clubs, or movies with Brad Pitt in them where he takes his shirt off or indeed, anything vaguely relevant to such matters. Except it’s not. And the fact is, bloggers talk about blogging all the bloody time. You can’t shut most of them up. In fact, some of them keep going on and on about it to the point where I’m prepared to sick a paranoid schizophrenic Brad Pitt/Fight Club/Tyler Durden guy (without his shirt) on them just to shut them up, and maybe he can do that thing with the battery acid on the back of the hand, and they’ll all wail and promise to never speak of such matters again, and…

Oh. I’ve wandered down tangent lane again, haven’t I?  I did tell you about the lack of sleep, right?

Apparently, though, one of the actual rules about blogging – because there are lots, so I’m told, though I didn’t realise this when I started out, I just figured it was only a matter of learning the technology, then sticking up a bunch of words into the public domain on a semi-regular basis, more fool me – is that you don’t talk “Hiatus” or “Break” or apologise for not having posted for ages either. You don’t pause in the content production, nor do you post about it if you do. Should you dare even let a little slip through, the global blogging police – dark and shadowy figures in big long black coats and a tendancy to play Cluedo when bored, or alternatively, Barrel of Monkeys – will come and get you and withdraw all online blogging rights, or something.

See, if you blog, then damn well blog, goddammit. No excuses now.

Hey, I can see the reasoning. If you’re a blogger, then that assumes that you are actually regularly blogging, not just letting your site sit about online like a lazy uni student, stretched out on the couch at 2am eating salt-and-viniger chips while watching bad late night sci-fi and complaining how the university has it in for them because they dared schedule classes for Friday, and before midday, what’s more. (Or was that just me?  What can I say – I was an arts student.)

If you’re a blogger, then you’re blog has to be a lean, mean, word-crunching machine that’s spitting them out there and pushing them on and just generally displaying your wordsmithy prowess to the online reading public in general. Or so I’m told is the first rule of blogging. But then again, as we’ve all noted before, I’m not a particularly good blogger and this isn’t a particularly good blog. Posts are too long, I don’t post regularly enough, there’s no real central theme but is just whatever I feel like crapping on about on any particular day – because we all know the internet just doesn’t have enough unsolicited opinion espoused in unstructured rants out there for all to see – and even the humour is patchy and entirely unreliable.

And don’t even get me started on the dreadful font size.

So when somebody tells me the first rule of blogging is to make sure you are, well, actually blogging, then my natural instinct is to tell them to go shove their regular, well-crafted, thoughtful and intelligent, visually wonderful blogs up their proverbials and choke on them, while the black cyber-ink poison trendrils suchs the nutrients out of their withered judgemental souls…

…sleep. Oh gods. I really need to get some sleep…

Anyway.  It’s not that they’re wrong. It’s just that I don’t care. This is my blog and it exists for my amusement only and if you come here and occasional have a gander at the words, then that’s your problem, don’t come crying to me afterwards.

See, all this is my way of saying that if I’m a wee bit slower than usual getting the blogs out at the moment, then so be it. There’s a lot going on in my life right now. I’m busy. Live with it.

Which does not in any way whatsoever mean that I am going away.  Oooh no, you don’t get off that easily, my little crawling wonders.  Unlike what may have elsewhere been suggested – *ahem* – I am not about to “take a break”.  Sure, paid words will always take precedence over the self-indulgent unpaid games I play on this blog, and the long-fiction project of priority is currently sucking up the bulk of my writing time to the exclusion of all else, including food, conversation and fresh air, but that doesn’t mean I’ve disappeared.  Oh no indeedy, my freaky friends of the internet, I am still here, still haunting the shadows and loitering around the dark spaces of online, wrapped up in my tight leather trench-coat and looking suspicious with a nasty grin and a flogger at the hip, all the while sucking on a boiled lolly.

(Are you sure I can’t sleep yet?)

And just to prove I’m still here and still blogging, even if I am a little slower and less prolific than usual, I’ve written an entire blog post about it.

This one.

So just be patient. I’m posting, I’m blogging, even if not as much as usual.  You know your bad Aunty Kath wouldn’t leave you all alone out there in the untamed wilds of the interwebs, now, don’t you..?

‘Till next, folks…

Kath

Pop Quiz

Why are you here?

No, I haven’t gone all zen-metaphysics on you, though do feel free to indulge, we’ve all got to get our kicks somehow.  I just want to know why you come here.  To this blog.  Or, indeed, to any blog mostly personal in nature.  Why do you read this stuff?  I looked back through some of it the other day and my opinion remains the same as it ever was.  Each post an elongated ramble in desperate search of an editor.

Still, as creator of this particular blog and author of its content, my opinion remains entirely immaterial and usually quite irrelevant.  I’ve never assumed I know more about the words I string together than anybody else does; just because I write them doesn’t mean I’ve got monopoly over their interpretation or anything.  If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then meaning must surely remain the responsibility of the one who’s stuck around long enough to read more than three sentences.

So I want to know why you come here.  Why you read this, or such like it elsewhere.

(And yes, I will be deleting smart-arse comments I don’t much like, so just pack away those mischievous ideas back in the box with your other toys right now, please.  Meaning might be up to the reader, but moderating direct feedback in a public forum is entirely under my own excessive and strictly wielded control.)

Not that I get a lot of comments.  But I do get emails and the stats are up, so I know there are readers out there somewhere, and it surprises me.  Sure, I’m hardly about to start competing with whatever food or travel blog of the moment has most recently wowed the indie online magazine crowd of Melbourne or anything, but there’s enough evidence now to prove that readers do come here, and they can’t all be my real world friends.  Especially as most of my friends can’t be bothered to come here just to read the same jokes they’ve had from me in email five times already anyway.*

(What can I say, I’m not a comedian by profession, I’m not even a particularly reliable comedic writer, so when I do latch onto a funny line, I like to re-use that bugger over and over again, until it’s gone all grey and mushy and the nutrients have been sucked right out of it.)

It’s a strange and scary thing, being read.  No, really, I mean that.  Sure, readers are the point of all writing and I will do whatever is within my power to get you all over here reading every word which ever tumbles out of my keyboard, just the same as anyone else in this business would.  But unlike other written formats, a blog is a highly personal statement of opinion and thought.  The author is right at the centre of it.  So putting it out there into the world does leave one feeling a tad… vulnerable.

And hey, I’m all for feeling vulnerable when the mood is right, but it’s not like blogging comes with safewords or anything, you know?

So why do I do it, if I’m not entirely comfortable with putting my self “out there” in the form of this kind of personal blog?  Or more to the point, why didn’t I just create an online fakie – otherwise known as a pseudonym – under which I could be as cynical and smartarse as I liked but not have to worry about the consequences of others’ judgements, and just be done with it?

Well.  Let me…  oh, you know what comes next…

I began this blog because I needed somewhere to learn some WordPress skills, and kept on with it because I actually enjoy it.  Weird, I know, but as I was going to be chucking the words together anyway, I figured I might as well put them online.  This blog is my thinking space.  My playing ground.  The little patch of online territory where I can experiment with a thought process, detail out a new argument, or just play around with the words (and oooh, don’t they just love that, the cunning little minxes.)  And I can do it all without worrying too much about weakness in narrative or structure, or caring about the minor things, such as evidence or original thought.

You know.  Elongated rambling in need of a good edit.

But I chose to do it all under my real name because I was tired of not owning up to my own words.  I’ve set up so many fake online identities over the years that I was starting to drown in my own alter-egos.  There were so many about that at some point or another life was guaranteed to go all David Lynch and see my fakies start battling it out in some kind of “there can be only one” Highlander style world-conquest thang.  Which, if I know anything about appropriate narrative causality, was destined to be won by the darkest and nastiest of them sucking all the others’ power into itself before coming after me in a kind of post-post-modern self-referential identity play and psychological thriller…

… or was that just a dream I had?

Anyway.  Whatever it was that had me come out as myself and write online under my own name – and I’m sure there must be a medication somewhere to fix it – it does get all a bit weird at times and not only because of the ex from years unexpectedly turning up in the inbox.  Identity is such a loopy and elasticised thing.  Our sense of self, our subjectivity, its all a negotiated mix of experience and emotion, memory and learning.  A personal mash up.  A muddy path trodden between how others view us in any one place and time, and the way we understand our own good selves, twisting and turning and doing the tango around again.

So where does that leave the personal blogger and her/his stranger readers, then?

And how  does one maintain the appropriate persona relevant to the readers, but still retain the authenticity needed for the personal blogging format, anyway?

I am not this blog.  (Yes, do try to contain your disappointment.)  No more than I am any of my other writing, even the stuff I do take the time to edit, or my photography, or my stupid Facebook status lines or throw-away tweets.  I am a well-rounded, complex and complicated human being, thank you very much, the same as any of you, and not merely the sum of a few unedited, poorly structured words on your computer screen.

And yet it is me, all of it.  Me in a certain mood, at a certain time of day.  Wanting to provoke a certain reaction.  Leaving little bits of online detritus behind me, out of context glimpses, individual slices taken away from the whole, which are out there and available for anyone, any stranger, any reader to accidently stumble upon and interpret, like the words, in any which way they like.

And if the meaning of the words is entirely up to the interpretation of the reader, then what about the one who writes them and puts herself “out there” in doing so…?

Or have I just gone all zen-metaphysics on you after all?

Time to do what I always do when the topic of conversation starts to look deeper than your average puddle: change the subject and move right on along.

Next week, kiddies, I promise you pictures…

Kath

*  Except for the delectable Ange, blog connoisseur extraordinaire.  If there were a Master Chef for bloggers, she’d be Matt Preston.  Only prettier.  And with even better cravats.

The work under copyright in the age of electronic reproduction…

…OR – this freakin’ copyright thing doesn’t make much sense when we’re on the internets, does it?

 It would be “cultural self-suicide”, according to a tautology-wielding Peter Carey.  The Productivity Commission – that independent research and advisory body with the brief, for good or ill, to “help governments make better policies in the long term interest of the Australian community” – thought otherwise.   

In the literary establishment v. economic rationalists grudge match of the year (two walk in, one walk out?  No?  Too far?), the debate over Australia’s Parallel Import Restrictions – you know, whether to retain Australian publishing’s territorial copyright and existing industry protections, or alternatively jemmy the market open to all comers – has been one of the more, well, emotive of 2009.  The Productivity Commission won the battle when it recommended PIR’s been removed entirely, but the war is far from over and current sounds out of cabinet suggest the situation might be leaning in favour of the publishing industry after all.  Everyone is now busy watching this space. 

Beyond our land girt by sea, other battles were shaping up into Big Copyright Moments.  The Google Book Settlement hit the ground running, after US authors and publishers took on the world’s biggest search engine and brokered a deal which came into play this year, the impact of which may well be felt around the world.  Google’s up for more than $125 million USD in payments to individual rights-holders of books already digitised under its Library Program, though the rights-holders in question have to go chasing it to get their cut.  In return, Google gets to sell online access, advertising rights and, best of all, keeps its massive mega-database of electronic literary copy.  Since 2004, the global search engine has been digitising its way through the Big Libraries of the World (well, of the US, mostly, such as Harvard University’s Library and the New York Public Library) and currently has more than seven million books in its digital stacks.

This three year copyright stoush between the publishing industry and the global information giant determined to create the world’s biggest online library has never been about the distribution or electronic publication of copyrighted works.  It is the digitisation and storage in Google’s databanks that rights-holders have objected to.  Google never planned to release copyrighted works out into the world; it wanted to provide a searchable database which would show less than a sentence of the material, and then provide a link to where the interested party could go legitimately purchase the tome. Indeed, some (okay, me) have previously argued that for authors in smaller regions and markets (like, um, Australia), getting the kind of global reach Google can offer is simply good marketing.  But that’s a debate still being waged.  Another copyright wait-and-see situation.

In other realms, meanwhile, J.K. Rowling won a battle against one of her own fans, who wanted to publish the book of his website – an encyclopaedic catalogue of the Harry Potter world.  In many ways, this was a case of hierarchy of format, a reminder of the significant value still placed upon the printed form.  It wasn’t the online fandom Rowling objected to, by all accounts she’d used the website herself, but when the chap behind it wanted to move it out of the realms of digital fanboy enthusiasm and turn it into a hard-bound, real-world, published encyclopaedia (and, not insignificantly, one that had the potential to earn serious cash), that crossed a significant line.  A website is one thing, but an actual printed, published book?  That was going too far.

In one way or another, the literary copyright battles of the year have all been about coping with a world gone digital.  Even the Australian market split over industry protections, with the publishers and writers on one side and the big book chains backing the Productivity Commission on the other, boils down to the issues created by a globalised world where, increasingly, traditional geographical boundaries no longer matter.  Copyright legislation is still based in a print world, as are the arguments and debates.  Books are too expensive here compared to overseas, say the Commission and the book retailers (who, incidentally, have had a horror half-decade themselves, what with Collins Booksellers struggling with administration a few years back and Angus & Robertson barely hanging on thanks to a dubious strategy of increasing market share by buying out Borders Australia.)  Opening up the market to global publishers able to dump cheap foreign editions in our wide brown land will threaten the very viability of Australian specific publishing and writing, say the publishers.

But while they’re fighting it out, consumers are increasingly buying their books online and by-passing the whole issue anyway.  The internet may not be the most significant sales channel for books yet, but it is thought to be the fastest growing, both here and overseas.  Market research from PubTrack estimates that in the UK the internet will be the major retail channel for books within three years and last year in the US internet sales outweighed all other book retail channels.  Here in Australia, some estimates put online books sales already at $100m annually, and growing.  The figures are rubbery, depending upon who is doing the talking, but there is one sure fact: online sales are increasingly significant and consumers buying online don’t think twice about the geographical territories being crossed when doing so. 

The digital world is already opening up the market, if haphazardly.  Indeed, 2009 might even be remembered as the year Amazon’s Kindle e-Book reader became available in Australia – though considering the Kindle itself is already looking uninspiring in Oz, what with Amazon trying to force serious discounts from publishers for inclusion of their work to the point where publisher’s don’t want to play anymore, it’s probably not going to be the e-book reader which takes Australia by storm.  Sony’s e-Reader has received some better reviews, and there’s talk from Kindle-competitors about finding ways for readers to swap e-books or share them with friends, or even just “borrow” e-Books from their local library.  That’s if the world’s publishers will agree to all this lending business (they haven’t yet).  But it’s the not-so-humble iPhone already making it’s way into everyone’s back pocket which offers a variety of e-book applications, complete with a large catalogue of e-books, which could just be the sleeper reader with the potential to really take-off.   The e-book is coming, one way or another, and books as downloadable files have the capacity to change everything. 

Now, it’s easy to be sceptical about the e-Book, but tell that to those who like listening to their music on vinyl.  And if there’s anything the music industry can teach the world’s book publishers, it’s that prohibitive digital rights which disallow consumers effective use of their own electronic purchases does the industry itself no favours.  The black market of piracy so prevalent in the music industry does not consist of organised crime operations skilfully flouting copyright so as to make illegal profit – it’s made up of everyday music lovers, those consumers who just want to easily access, listen, share, swap and enjoy the music they love.  No legal action, expensive copyright suit or “piracy is theft!” education campaign has ever been shown to decrease the amount of illegal copying online, but that hasn’t stopped the music industry trying.  Unfortunately, the only impact of the industry’s strict adherence to copyright legislation better suited to a non-digital era – not to mention their ‘sue everyone’ approach when it’s breached – is to criminalise its very own audience. 

The literary world of publishers and authors and booksellers and printers and everyone else in-between needs to adapt to the electronic era, rather than cling on to the old ways.  When the Statute of Anne was enacted in 1709 England to effectively become the world’s first copyright law, it was said to necessary for “the encouragement of learned men to compose and write useful books.”  In fact, the Statute of Anne was driven by the publishers who, needing to recoup their publishing costs and pay their authors, were trying to ward off booksellers flooding the market with cheaper editions of their books.  The eighteenth century debates sound startlingly familiar to those of us following such issues three hundred years later.

This is an old argument.  But now it’s a new world.  And we’re only just at the beginning, standing on the precipice and waiting to see what challenges this new age of electronic reproduction will bring.

Later…

Kath

 

P.S.   Apologies for the complete lack of jokes in this posting, kiddies.  I had to take ‘em all out so I could use this piece elsewhere (yes, I do like to make the words multi-task, on occasion.) 

Do feel free to supply your own, though, won’t you.  I’ll even offer prizes for best smart-arse comment able to be tacked on to any above sentence.  Points will be deducted for comments containing actual substance, of course, so don’t say you weren’t warned.

Let’s all become management consultants

Hey internet babes, I’ve been away.  Miss me?  Huh?  Didya?  Didya miss me?

Yeah, well, I was lounging around doing beautiful things and liking it enough to consider taking up a full time residency in the beautiful things conference hall, but then I picked up this year’s BRW Rich List and realised I wasn’t on it.  So here I am back again, trying to find ways to get myself through the working day.  I guess it just wasn’t my year.  If Jamie P can watch his billions more than halve in less than two years, then it’s probably unlikely I’m going to suddenly find a few hundred million I’d forgotten about, having fallen down the back of the couch. 

So hey, maybe next year.  We’ll see.  After all, my chosen industries (libraries, books, writing, publishing, culture stuff) are where the money is made in this country …

Or not.

It does strike me, as I toddle through my studies one assignment at a time looking to expand the horizons a bit, that the overriding message the industry wants to give us as writers, editors, publishers and the like, is to make sure you love doing this stuff, because you ain’t never going to make much cash from it.  Whether you write or whether you publish writers, you’re going to get shafted monetary wise.

But hey, if I wanted to make billions, I’d have stuck with management consulting.  Ah, the professional services sector, it’s just all about adding value to our world, don’t you think?

No, me neither. 

Anyway, speaking of management consulting, I have to confess I lied.  You know how I said I was off doing beautiful things?  Well it’s not true.  Yeah, I know, it’s a shock to think that I might choose to bullshit my darling readers for the sake of a weak joke, but there you go.  Sorry to disillusion you.

What I have been doing is corporate strategising.  Think a circus, but without the clowns, acrobats, ring master, animals, side carnival, or fun and laughter, but retaining the chaotic stupidity.  It was several days of funky facilitators and pointed energisers and coloured felt pens and butchers paper.  It was break away groups and post it notes of every colour and tortured analogies and management tools designed to help a middling sized group of vastly different people all come to a shared decision everyone can “own.”  You know, as if we were buying a house together, except I would go into a financial arrangement any one in the room, so instead we all get together to ‘own’ the corporate direction.

Yes, it is as silly as it sounds.

Look, I know the adult learning theories, I know the facilitation techniques.  I don’t actually need coloured paper and pens to be able to remember key information, but if you want to cover the walls in butchers paper and post its, then so be it.  I would recommend you get in an interior decorator myself, but you guys are running this thing and I can live with it.  Just please, next time, can we avoid the twenty minute energisers five times a day which cater solely to the attention seekers amongst us by forcing everybody to mime, sing, dance or otherwise humiliate themselves in the name of lifting the energy of the room during that mid-afternoon slump?

It was, of course, all off-site.  Deliberately away from internet, email or other incidental distractions, like families and loved ones. 

(And just to burst another balloon, we weren’t gathered in any kind of beautiful things conference hall either.  In fact, such a place doesn’t even exist.  Yeah, really, I made it up.  Live with it.) 

But my favourite – *cough* *splutter* *cough* – part of the strategising is the management speak.  I’ve come out of the experience needing to relearn the English language.  Between black swan events (something unforseen) and leveraging our intellectual capital (making the most of the smart people in the company) and knowledge optimisation (oh, don’t ask me) and maximising business development interests (going and talking to the client), we seem to have developed some kind of strategy for the company.  I’m just not sure anybody will ever understand it.  But that’s okay.  I doubt the purpose of these things is to be understood in the first place.

The best part?  When at the end of the last day we were told one of the guys who had disappeared some hours earlier had gone home diagnosed with swine flu, so if we could all just be concious of any flu-like symptoms, that would be great.

Um.  Is my cynicism showing?  Too much, do you think? 

Ah, time for me to toddle off, methinks.  One minute a girl’s just flashing a sly bit of cheeky cynicism and the next thing she knows, she’s wallowing in flabby public sarcasm for all to see.  Just not a pretty sight.  And I’ve been off the keys for some days now.  There are words in need of writing, lots of ‘em stacking up there.  Granted, not stacking up with lots of cash or just waiting for me to write them so the funds flow freely into my bank account, but anyway. 

It’s writing and arts and culture stuff.  It’s not management consulting.  Which is how we got into this mess in the first place.

*Sigh*

Catch you next, peoples. 

Kath

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