Snakes and Ladders

Sentence of the day:

. Eventually I was lulled to sleep by the faint staticky screams of Jennifer Lopez.

Snippets

Two for today:


The graphos had been kept deliberately small back in those days, because, well, have you ever tried tattooing a screaming toddler?


A footnote, a la Terry Pratchett, snuck in:

The Undersider blood bank doesn’t make you wait a year after getting a tattoo before donating blood, though they will ask you the rest of the embarrassing questions. They also take chlorophyll donations, provided you haven’t cross-germinated with any Musaceae and you’ve kept your own banana free from Panama Disease.

Sneaking It In

(First posted Friday, Sept. 3, 2010 @Vox)

200 words at the doctor's office this morning. Five days of writing streak! Whee.

Trying to figure out the stages of Megs' tattoo which she's had her whole life. But the tattoo she had at five was tiny compared to the one she has now. Need to figure out how it grew and what symbols are in it. I know there's no snakes, no caduceus, nothing like that....

I think she has an iris and some insect and a lot of art nouveau-style leaves because that's what J.P. likes to do.

Writing Streak = 4 days

I was feeling pretty mighty what with having written every day this week, plus three days from last week. I'm surprised at how easily the ten minutes slip by sometimes, or how I submerge into the writing.

Today: I discovered the background of my tattoo artist, Jean-Paul. His father was French-Canadian, his mother is Japanese. I know he's Underside on his mother's (kitsune) side for certain, but he's garden-variety human, aside from the magical tattooing he does. He was apprenticed under his maternal grandfather and studied in Japan for five years. If he never has to tattoo another rose ever again, it will be too soon. He hates hate hates doing "tribal" tattoos, roses, barbed wire, and skulls. He loves art nouveau and can be a bit of a diva artistically. He has a traditional irezumi from the Japanese Undersider community to mark his two heritages. His grandfather gave him the irezumi. (His grandfather is still alive and Skypes with him on a regular basis.) None of this will matter in this book, but it might in Snakes and the City when J.P. gets whanged over the head and left for dead. (I already knew that was going to happen.)

...

Now that I've seen the post about Vox shutting down, I need to decide what to do with this blog. Sigh. I like keeping it strangely separate from my regular journal. I dunno why.

Snaaaaaaaakes!

My online peeps corralled ourselves into a little group. We meet once a week via Skype and scrum about our word counts and goals. This is great, because now I'm back to writing on a semi-regular basis. Stealing from Laurie, I suggested to the group that they post favourite sentences, descriptions or snippets they like:

Here have some snippets:

The door lock clicked. I let myself in and began to pick my way up a dingy flight of stairs. A single bulb on the first landing lit my way, providing guidance over the worn linoleum treads. The walls seemed to flutter and whisper as I climbed the steps. A closer glance revealed concert posters and flyers, which said more about the due diligence of the city’s concert promoters than any particular happening vibe Chameleon gave off. I was pretty certain J.P. never bothered to remove old flyers, and the effect was like ascending into an overlarge wasp’s nest.

And:

Now that I knew Barrett was a daemon, I couldn’t ignore the faint charred scent that drifted in his wake: scorched meat with a counterpoint of burnt sage, and overlaying it all, the expensive cologne Barrett doused himself with. Every time he walked into a room, I wanted to squirt him with Febreze or dust him off with baking soda.