I understand I ought to be outcast from the blogging community for neglecting Phantasmagorium, but I was on the road. So I'll just have you write about outcasts instead!
I admitted to the leader of a prose-writing workshop my worst fear was being misunderstood. He misunderstood what I meant.
Every now and again I'm just going to need to share album covers. I had to gush about Sonata Arctica's "The Ninth Hour" last time, but now I have to gush about Sonata Arctica's "Stones Grow Her Name." I mean, look at it.
There's nothing better for healing than sleep--or writing. Having spent my weekend finally getting to do plenty of both, that's my testimony. I'm not snake-oiling you here, folks, some good, cathartic writing will cure what ails you.
For better or worse, it's Scott Fitzgerald's birthday today--author of "The Great Gatsby," or at least the bits his wife Zelda didn't write. To be perfectly honest, they both sound like the kind of people you would want to go to a party with but the people you would absolutely not want to be your minders for said party.
Since my body has decided to betray me with a hideous sinus infection, I decided this week's microprompts ought to reflect it. Shame on you, immune system. Get your act together.
The more I fine-tune "Lost and Found," the more my heroes become anti-heroes and my villains become anti-villains. The only difference between most of the "good" and "bad" characters is who they happen to dislike the most at that moment.
It's a new month, which means it's time for a new set of shocking, scandalous writer confessions. Not for the faint of heart, I assure you.
You'll all be pleased to know today is National Be Late For Something today. You might think I'm making this up to excuse missing a post, but I beg to differ. Look it up.
Now, I know my obsession with power metal and album covers bleeds over into Phantasmagorium a bit more often than is strictly called for, but I had to share Sonata Arcitca's "The Ninth Hour."