November 9th, 2002

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Giant lily pads

I read in that anecdote book on botany I bought about giant lily pads in South America, so large that babies can rest on their leaves. I'd rather be someplace I've never been watching lily pads than working again today.
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from Chapter Twenty Eight

"Is life ever anything besides poetry? I was raised to believe that life was a set of familiar patterns, things to do, things to feel and rewarding pursuits. But I have instead found that life is limitless patterns and patternlessness, endless asynchronous colors and extreme pursuits of arcane goals".

---from Lonely Distance, my November novel
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at 40,000, with faith

I considered genuflecting at the altar of pause and reflection,
those twin godlings of quality and serenity;
I considered the scripture of plot outlines, the incense of ideas, and
worshipping in the temple of Art instead of merely typing.

Then I sat at my computer, and began to type, and
I felt quantity, like a great Comforter come upon me, and
I looked at it, and it was bad, and that was good;
may I dwell in the House of the Long-winded for 10,000 more words.
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