Monday, December 12, 2005

Fiction, leastways that’s what I think I told you a few weeks ago, and more of it. Good thing constructs like scheduling and consistency and honoring promises are as yet unpronounceable to our frozen tongues. Silent “G,” damn it, silent “G.” I’m not completely pitiless, however, and where once I’d tenderly whisper sugared pledges in your ear before pushing you down the stairs, now I shall drag you back up the stairs and resume whispering. That’s the Spirit of the Christmas Future talking.

It’s not fair to begin an arc, sever it midstream, and then resuscitate it months later. Let’s give it a term, call it necroarcing, because honestly it will happen again down the road, not that I can do anything about it. Or can I? Observant readers will have noticed a feature updated on the right-hand side, a little something I like to call a table of contents. They say these things are like maps, but for words. Who here can read a map, though? Precisely.

We have until next Wednesday to finish strong and get our shit together. I have high hopes, how about you? I picture half a dozen tales crafted effortlessly on a whim, regaled with holiday cheer, richly validated by our mutual enjoyment. And then we pass out after drinking too much eggnog. Oh, I’m sorry. The Ghost of Christmas Realism couldn’t make it today.