More than being a comedy of manners, which doesn’t translate well, nor is it a timeless story, more than that, the story I want to tell is not about the guy behind you on the train wearing far too much cologne, giving you flashbacks to the time you went to the nuclear plant and couldn’t find a good way to tell them it wasn’t you who set off the bomb sniffer, it was the guy in front. Secondhand perfuming. I keep thinking that there’s gotta be a way to get from one park to another here in the city, some kind of emerald necklace connecting here to there that isn’t the obvious answer of Bay Trail. I’m not even sure what I’m saying any more. It’s been a long week.
The last few days I’ve had an opportunity to – really, I should say no opportunity to – edit a few items on Wikipedia leading towards incomplete stories, just to get the feel of writing again and then trying to execute a few illustrations to make sure I have the right mental picture going forward. It feels weird that I should claim that that sort of thing helps me going forward with fork but that’s how I feel about it: we have a lot of different ways to go in this world and you can choose to create or not, and no one else will ever write your story as well as you can.
Maybe that means they’ll write it better, though. I’m not sure. There’s a thousand hours between now and the end of the year, so let’s not be too hasty in dismissing any items.