One of my favorite songs of all time was Plush by STP.
Up until about a week ago, I thought it was a guy thinking about some girl after they separated. My misheard lyrics include ‘Where you going when the masks are found?’ which I thought was the guy wondering what she would do when other people found out she wasn’t as cool or popular as she appeared. Further misheard was ‘When the dogs begin to smell you, will you stand alone?’ as in, when the people coming after you find you (in light of discovering you’re not as cool as you appear), will you stand by yourself as who you are? So on and so forth.
I’ve always liked the track because I thought it was a melancholy but somewhat reasonable lament after a breakup/loss. The guy didn’t seem mad or too upset, just sad and a little melancholy. He’d gotten to know this person, and now she was leaving.
That is not what Plush is about. There’s a lot more murder in lyrics, and now I have a hard time listening to it at all.
Okay, jokes aside I have got to figure out some way of burning myself more evenly. I’m not willing to let go of some stuff, but there has got to be a middle ground in here.
I’m drawing maps for TiH to keep the details clear. The first map is usually pretty crude and little more than names with a few iconic shapes for mountains, roads, and waves. The second is a bit more refined, and the geography gets added. The third is vaguely cogent in terms of geology and setting, while the fourth actually looks like something I can show people.
I got it! Next time, I’ll over commit even harder so I get more stuff done before burning out!
I am so smart.
The Aston Martin Valour looks almost exactly like a Mustang.
We all see this, right? I like Mustangs. I’m just confused.
My strategy of overdoing everything until I burn myself out seems to have significant flaws.
There’s no time better to write then when I should be doing something else.
The Fountainhead is a legitimately good book.
Neglecting the Ayn Rand-isms of Objectivism, the book itself is a good read. It does battles of ideas in a way I’ve never seen elsewhere.
Imagine Adam and Bob get into an argument. Adam tells Bob to do something. Bob says no.
End scene. There’s not much room to keep going there.
In the Fountainhead, at one point Roarke is trying to get some investors to fund a resort, and Rand talks about a hidden third party, a faceless, voiceless other member of the negotiations who sits in the room with them. The investors are in some way performing for this third party, but there’s no one there. Roarke can’t see what’s happening.
First of all, the leverage of the scene with the hidden agenda is beyond the simple argument and refusal. The investors are bound to something that matters to them in a way that’s significant. The persuasion isn’t unreasonable of inexplicable. You get it. They are completely in their own characters and not talking to the reader at all.
Secondly, I absolutely have conversations with people in the real world who are performing for an audience when it’s just the two of us. I have spoke to someone who made a joke and then looked around as if to see if everyone else noticed how good her joke was. There’s no one else there. We don’t live in the Truman show. It’s not real.
I don’t know if they’re practicing for social media, like they’re going to make a video about this conversation later. I don’t know if they’re showing off for other people they used to know. But the invisible third party is absolutely a real thing people do.
Ayn Rand hits a few things like that, social phenomena that no one else seems to touch. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen social conflict like that anyplace else.
I’ll be back in a bit. I just need a break.
Take care, everyone. I’m rooting for you.
Did a 18 miler today, and now I’m reading by an open fire. Tonight, life is good.
I don’t really need this website until I’ve written and published more books/stories.
It takes money, energy, and time. There are evenings when I could be going over a plot thread, and instead I’m trying to put together an update. LC is a distraction.