creative whiplash

I'm not sure whether to be amused or distressed that I game with a group of people who, confronted with a horde of zombies headed for Tiananmen Square, decide that the best of all possible responses is to show up with a tank.

Anyway, we just destroyed the center of Beijing -- srsly, I'm talking flaming wreckage of the Tiananmen itself crashing down into the sea of gasoline-charred zombie body parts, bullet casings, shattered concrete, and dead PLA soldiers -- and now I have to go write subtle, elegant politics.

My head hurts.

But wheeeeee, is over-the-top gaming fun.

imponderables

The character who was John Highlord when I started writing has been replaced with Thomas Soame, because I realized matters would work better if I used an alderman who was also a member of Parliament later on, and both of them are minor enough figures that they don't rate entries in the DNB. (Ergo, I can make stuff up and not worry too much about somebody knowing I'm wrong.)

So I ask you: why, pray tell, does my subconscious want to insist that Thomas Soame wouldn't talk the way I had John Highlord do? Why does it object to him being broad-shouldered? Everything I know about both of these men would fit into a paragraph shorter than this one, and it consists of a handful of dates regarding their public service. I don't know what they looked like. I don't know what their personalities were. Yet my subconscious resists the swap.

This, chickadees, is why naming is sometimes a giant problem for me. If I don't find the right name, I often can't write the character, and it's like pulling teeth to change a name once it's settled in. Some bit of my brain decides nobody named Thomas Soame could possibly be a blunt-spoken, broad-shouldered guy, and god only knows how long it will take to convince it otherwise.

This job would be easier if my brain were rational.

accidental allegory?

The King saw any restrictions they tried to impose as infringements upon his royal authority.

Writing this scene of political debate, it occurs to me that somebody out there will probably decide I wrote this book as commentary on current U.S. politics. With, I don't know, faerie warfare as a coded metaphor for terrorism.

Or something.