Quixotica

Hey, I'm not writing much here because I've started writing regularly over here.

Also, I've been outside.

Goddamn. The problem with buying into the brave new world of digital publishing is that it becomes possible to leave your entire fucking library at work.

Crap.

I take far too long to push prose, and it's cramping my professional style.

I'm of two minds about the problem, and problem is the term I'm using because whether or not I believe my slothful style is a disadvantage I am resolved to change.

Writing slowly is hampering me at work; I can't seem to crank out stories fast enough to match the pace of our interns and bloggers, even when I have the entire day to write. On days when I actually have other obligations (i.e. my actual job) to attend to, my editorial presence in our publication becomes nonexistent.

At the same time, I don't take my time because I'm a slow typist or a plodding, sodding fool; I take my time because I value my byline and want every sentence beneath my name to be something I'm proud of. Though the rapid rollercoaster rise and fall of my arrogance inevitably causes every article to fall beneath my prideful expectations, I have a hard time regretting the time I waste. I waste it choosing the right words, checking the facts and building my work to be both aesthetically pleasing and easy to read/follow, with brief paragraphs and copious linking.

It sucks that care and consideration are less valuable than volume. I am resolved to improve in all respects.

Writing Time: 10-15 minutes

I look really weird.

I like paprika. I like it on french fries and eggplant, or included in the ritual pre-grill rubdown raw meat demands. Paprika is just a bright red powder ground of dried sweet peppers, and it's responsible for the "natural color" listing on the back of any bright red, orange or yellow pre-packaged food product. In point of fact, the smoky spiciness of paprika is only released under heat; if you don't add paprika to a dish before cooking, sprinkling it on after the fact adds little beyond a ruddy red hue.

Also, apparently it's the title of a Japanese work of fiction involving recursive dreams that was published in 1993 and adapted into a film in 2006. Looks a bit like Inception, kinda?

You caught me, I'm spent.

Since the Atari 2600 didn't have a frame buffer, early game developers would literally have to program and optimize graphical code to update faster than the electron beam panned across the screen of the player's TV.

Sometimes I feel like I'm racing against a beam of my own restlessness, scrambling to stay one step ahead of self-reflection. I don't like to buffer thoughts, desires and dreams; stopping to reflect about where I've been and where I'd like to be inevitably leads to bleak thoughts of mortality.

It's pretty overwrought, that spot in my mind, and I try to keep out whenever possible.

Reading Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind. It's pretty hot.

Hey, do you suppose our custom video player works? I've never tested it in the wild.

You guys are wild, right?



/plug

To Narnia!