"I have to do something," Hadjare muttered to herself. The cold wind tugged at her scarf and blew through the button gaps in her coat. She shoved her hands deeper in her pocket and focused walking over snow covered ice without taking a second spill. That morning while navigating between two parked SUV's she had suddenly found herself on the ground wondering what happened. The whole of the pavement was covered in black ice and getting up again required the assistance of two side mirrors.
Work has passed rather quickly that morning with a steady steam of clerical duties. Between photocopying 32 double-sided, three page handouts on buff paper and faxing an advertisement for an upcoming seminar she felt a faint flutter to the left side of her mind. It had been a long time since that larvae last disturbed any dust in her brain. She pushed it aside and concentrated on sneaking peeks at other people's electronically published lives.
By the time her key turned the golden lock on her front door the larvae had graduated into a full blown moth of discontent. It batted madly around the small confine and knocked loose buds of creativity. Visions of a grand apocalyptic epic, complete with a annotated guide book on How to Survive the End of the World to writing a fairly obscure author swirled around one another. "I can't do both," Hadjare reasoned and watched her two dogs eat a high-quality lunch. "Only one could reasonably be completed in one afternoon."
The battle royal tired her and she decided to take a short afternoon nap. She awoke an hour later to a barking dog five feet from the bed. "What the hell is going on?" she hollered and fumbled to put her glasses on. As her vision cleared a black dog ran out of the room and a smug white dog turned her attention to a pile of high-quality vomit, jazzed up with small curd cottage cheese lying in a forlorn pile at the side of the bed. "Oh no you don't," she menaced and kicked the dog out with small slam of the bedroom door. Luckily, a roll of paper towels was at hand from the last time a dog as expelled something. Ripping apart four sheets she laid it over the steaming pile and scooped it up one fell sweep.
"That's it," she said to the garbage. "I'm going to write China Mieville a post card he will probably never get."
posted by hadjare @ 4:58 PM
1 Comments:
wait a second - when did you start refering to yourself in the third person? please tell me this is only something you do on the internet!
and, if you write the postcard care of his publisher and don't put anything really creepily dangerous sounding in it, china meiville'll probably get your postcard. eventually and it'll be bound together with a couple weeks of fan mail from other strangers, so there's a chance he might not pay any attention to it but i'd say he probably at least gets it.
and you never know. i think isaac asimov was famous for always replying to everyone who sent him fanmail. the afterword to one of piers anthony's books said he did it, too, for a real long time but then quit when it got to the point he was spending too much time on that and not his "real" writing.
wouldn't it just be easier to send the guy an e-mail tho? but i suppose easy isn't really the point of mailing correspondence any way, is it?
Post a Comment
<< Home