Ok, so first things first.
Pluto is dead.
Second, is this the end of Disney as we know it, or the birth of a new, better, post Eisner Disney?
Who knows? I’d like to ask Roy Disney this question though.
The question is, will Comcast have the sense to leave it alone, respect the tradition, but make it GOOD again, fixing the problems and painting and fixing and all? Or will we have replacement of the old with pointless new, as in Cory Doctorow’s Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom? (And a big thanks to MP for telling me I should read that book, it kicks major ass, particularly for Disney fans.) Speaking of which, I bet Doctorow has an opinion on this whole comcast thang. This will require more research.
While I’m pointing to these good things, how about we ask the folks at www.mouseplanet.com, see if they have an opinion on the whole deal?
What’s the relevance? Well, not much, other than that I’m going to be at D-land next week, so I’ll be thinking much on this matter. That and thinking about – well, that story isn’t for public consumption, but trust me, I’ll be thinking about it.
But enough about that. Let’s talk about me. Wait, first I need scotch.
* * *
Ok. There. A wee dram of Oban.
So where were we? Ah, yes.
The sequel to Wanton. Which people keep asking me about.
Let me say, first, that I don’t like sequels. I know of several stories I don’t think need them (Say, on SS). One story I co-wrote that I think is sort of done (At least in my view – YMMV). Stories by other favorite SS writers that where part one is better than whatever followed.
People want Die Hard II though. It’s better than going to see some indie flick that might not have as much stuff blowing up.
So that said – the main character in Wanton was birthed for something other than Wanton. He has a novel. The first chapter was written but died a painful death with the laptop it lived on several years back. He was un-named at the time, but he had a drinking problem, women problems, no job, a disrespect for authority, and a tendancy to walk into trouble by choice. So that novel still exists, and has a title, but isn’t yet written.
But between that novel, and Wanton, there’s a piece of story that has to happen. because – well, just because. I’m the writer I get to decide.
This is where I should have a link to the in-progress story. Only I’m not yet sure the story is in progress yet. I have 4000 words of it, but still no idea if the story is there yet, or if it has to wait a while. Below, though, is an excerpt.
The thing is, getting back to where I was when I wrote Wanton is hard. For I was possessed. Muse-ridden, like some Loa of creativity summoned with a dream veve, perched upon my shoulders and feeding fire into my brain.
I don’t know if this will happen again, nor do I know if I can write this story correctly, yet, without it. Time, and my friends whos opinions I trust more than I trust my own, will tell me if now is the time, this the story.
The character’s voice comes easily though. That much I know. All I had to do was write the excerpt below and I was back inside his head.
With that said, here’s a passage:
I had tried to get my job back. They ditched me, when I started to come unglued, before.
I went to see my ex boss. Told him I had it together, the whole episode with the girl, it was over, I was clean now, man. Ready to get back into the groove and be a team player. I thought for a minute he was going to give my job back to me, there in his office. And then I let go of his throat and it turned out he was trying to say something else.
Security took me out of the building. They tried to walk me but after I took the little one’s stick away they used something on me, like an electric cattle prod. I don’t remember much after that, but at least they didn’t call the cops. The cops were tired of hearing my name.
The old bag who rented my apartment to me kicked me out after a while. I think she was going to try to hold my possessions in lieu of back rent, but she must have realized I didn’t have a damned thing she could figure out how to sell. Honestly, some of the artwork was worth more than I owed her but I wasn’t going to tell her that. She just changed the lock one day and told me I had til morning to get my crap outta there.
I loaded the art into my van. Walked away. Whatever else was in there, I didn’t care about. The art, the clothes I could pack in a gym bag. Fuck the rest of it.
I dropped the shit off, the artwork, dropped it with my friend Patrick. Bummed cash from him for gas. His roommate, or boyfriend or whatever the fuck he was, fed me some dinner.
I didn’t know where I was going after that. They wanted me to stay but – no. I had to go. The hills, I remember thinking. I’ll head for the hills. Because it was either that or the ocean, and when I hit the ocean I thought I might just take a swim for the horizon.
So the hills were better. Maybe try to find a horizon in the other direction, or something between me and it that would stop me