Permission to be Ridiculous

 This is for me, because who am I kidding? No one's ever going to read this. But it's important, I think, to comment on the week-month-year-decade we've been having. An armed insurrection. Quisling Republicans. Systemic racism and ALL the ways we've watched it come into play, with BLM, the pandemic, and in every possible way, big and small, that it's absolutely encoded into our society. These things are wrong and terrible. I don't have any answers, except that lawbreakers should go to jail, regardless of -- especially because of -- how privileged they are. By choice, I inhabit a liminal space, where, although I am white, I am largely perceived as non-white by white people. POC do not make that sort of mistake about my person. My experiences are, by and large, pretty mild, especially since I can, if I am frightened for my safety and/or the safety of my family, step out of that liminal space and blend into the background. POC don't have that option. Safety fro...

Late one night, after putting my youngest to sleep and thinking about the sorts of stories I want to tell, I realized that what holds me back from creating anything was the idea that I need to create works of lasting import, when I have zero interest in doing so. If I want to be ridiculous, I should just be ridiculous. Who gives a flying fuck? I thought to myself. What a moment! Such freedom! BE RIDICULOUS , I thought. I once wrote a novella from the viewpoint of a goose (yes, very, very loosely based on "Untitled Game," if we'd been inside the goose's head). It was madcap, mostly terrible, but the most fun I've ever had writing anything.  Maybe not Harry Keeler levels of ridiculousness, though (I think). Last night (ok, this morning), as I tossed and turned and waited for sleep that was maddeningly elusive, I thought -- blog. You know, instead of dumpster-fire Twitter, which is fine for short jaunts but irritating for long reads (I will read almost every thread ...