So on, and occasionally so forth.

by

As a writer one of the most (who am I kidding, the most) important thing for me is output.

I should be able to write a few thousand words a day cleanly and easily. I’ve read somewhere that about four finished, polished pages a day is  a respectable output for a writer. I dunno if that’s what I’m shooting for right now; rather right now I’m shooting for “as many as creatively possible.” So I’ll post what I come up with here.

I’d write it here and post it but I work better with Abiword. Expect to see copy and pasted prose and stories shortly.

edit:

Ex nihilo, res. The following is an excerpt from what I’ve written so far today.

I breathe deeply, try to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest. The biofeedback tag in my helmet’s HUD shows my heartbeat several degrees north of “calm.” I try to bring it back out of the yellow and into the green, and as I do so I see a litany of chemicals flicker across my vision as my suit fine-tunes me for the upcoming Moment.
I feel the cold fingers of the quantum scanner’s field probe my every molecule, nuts to noggin. The shiver I shiver I gotta wonder if it’s the first time. Same as always some crazy urge wants to scream out and ask how many times I’ve died so far, what day it really is. But they wouldn’t tell me. And I don’t really want to know anyway.
Same as always I imagine I can taste the blood of all my former selves blossoming in my mouth. Control tells me it’s a psychological coping device for the possibility that each scan represents the possibility that my consciousness has broken symmetry with the rest of the universe. Which is bullshit for your mouth tastes like blood when we bring you back from the dead.

I breathe deeply, try to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest. The biofeedback tag in my helmet’s HUD shows my heartbeat several degrees north of “calm.” I try to bring it back out of the yellow and into the green, and as I do so I see a litany of chemicals flicker across my vision as my suit fine-tunes me for the upcoming Moment.

I feel the cold fingers of the quantum scanner’s field probe my every molecule, nuts to noggin. The shiver I shiver I gotta wonder if it’s the first time. Same as always some crazy urge wants to scream out and ask how many times I’ve died so far, what day it really is. But they wouldn’t tell me. And I don’t really want to know anyway.

Same as always I imagine I can taste the blood of all my former selves blossoming in my mouth. Control tells me it’s a psychological coping device for the possibility that each scan represents the possibility that my consciousness has broken symmetry with the rest of the universe. Which is bullshit for your mouth tastes like blood when we bring you back from the dead.

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