Wasting Time

Can you find the dot for Pashitakua?

Although I planned out at least half the November novel yesterday, sitting in my truck in Dubuque, waiting for the proper time to pick The Lovely One for lunch, I canʼt claim much other progress (yet — itʼs only 3:30 right now). I now know there are predatory bird people on my imaginary planet (Tsyriel?), and the Travelers are lizardlike. I even have a reason in mind for the tentative title (in other words, how itʼs possible to be enslaved to the lesser moon). Furthermore, my callow youth must (as of this/yesterday morning) spend some time alone after his arrival (I think heʼll need some toughening up, both in character and body, if heʼs going to survive. But what if he doesnʼt? Hmmmm… intriguing novelty…)

And I am concealing from you a whole bunch of stuff, too. Actually, I wrote about two hundred more words on the new Søren and Judah extension once I got some of those Slaves to Lesser Moon ideas down in black and white (and which I will now need to transfer, orally, I assume, to the computer this afternoon). I spent some pointless time, first thing this morning, on the NaNoWriMo website updating my own and my bookʼs profiles*, which helped to shape a few ideas I have been baking in the semiconsciousness. On the other hand, those were minutes I could have spent putting words that count into the actual text before I had to leave the house for errands and Dubuque. (Well, this weenie nonwriter whines in personal excuse, I did work on the story, a little bit, in Dubuque.) But I also wandered around Samʼs Club (not finding the almost-but-not-quite-affordable Bose noise-cancelling headphones** I had seen only weeks ago) and ate with Janet. And the drive both directions gave me plenty of empty time for imagining and figuring things out (except it didnʼt work quite that way). Then I came home, all intent to Get To Work.

However, upon restarting the old iMac, I discovered that antagonist Daniel had dully kept his wits and understanding tendentiously narrowed and his argument stolidly repetitious, so I had to make one last attempt to rectify his deliberate and wish-fulfilling philosophical, historical-biographical and Constitutional mistakes*** (thus consuming irrevocably almost a half hour of my life). However, I think I should stop wasting time attempting to open a closed mind. It is a futile task, experience indicates, and probably just frustrating for the tightly constrained opponent rather than at all enlightening (my first clue of his utter resistance to reason should have been his automatic recycling of the tepid, uninspiring, incorrect and refuted assertions from our week-old exchange on this blog). If I mean to complete the novel, time-wastes are just that, particularly unproductive ones like this. (Although I like sharpening my own ideas, doing so recurrently with such a dull whetstone doesnʼt take me far; and he is the only gleam of intelligence among his selfRighteous fans — click their names to see what I mean; mct88 is particularly dim and meanspirited.)

So instead of hopping to the novel, chop chop, here I am putzing with this post (and struggling with myself to avoid discussing the positively disheartening and reactionary results of yesterdayʼs election). A conflict of promises to myself seems to be brewing. Unfortunately, both in my consciousness and already exerted effort, the blog has precedence. Perhaps… if I… just… stop. Now.

* And I quote — “PLANETARY ROMANCE.  Wisconsin college student, persuaded to test new principles in physics, is zapped from our world to another planet, supposedly another time. In this new world, he first becomes enslaved by Travelers, strange beings dissociated from the numerous other cultures and intelligent beings who compete for survival amid the remnants of a dead society.”

** You try living (even at my advanced age) with rapidly increasing tinnitus. As you may have guessed, I might, even in these recessional days, expend cash to slow the inexorable and surprisingly speedy advance of the raucous psychological static.

*** Actually his incorrections are not so much mistakes as deliberate (and perhaps even conscious, certainly not conscientious) falsifications of reality — simply to make his own desires appear (untruthfully) somewhat possible. Itʼs a very poor, selfdeafeating excuse for argumentation (and research… and reality).

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

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