I have decided to
wear only black and to speak only by quoting Shakespeare. When mother
asked me to unload the dishwasher this morning, as I was trying to
look out of the window and consider whether metaphysical evil can
exist in human form (yes - Chris), I told her that I wished my flesh
would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew. Slight problem I will
have to deal with is that I only know that quote, and my one pair of black
trousers has a hole in the crotch.
My one great
solace, as ever, is that goddess we call Art. My novel is now partly
an existential probing into whether goodness can flourish in this world
(no – thanks, Chris) and partly about the sexual adventures of an
intelligent but misunderstood sorcerer's apprentice with good
trousers.
If I were to name
the author that's inspired me the most, I'd have to say it's
thesaurus.com.
Everyone was shocked the day that
Princess Haryatte married Lord Badclaw Darkfang. But Willymm Goodtree
was not shocked. Nor was he revolted, scandalized, horrified,
outraged, perturbed, agitated or disquieted.
He felt no element of
stun, nor was he staggered or confounded; there was no sense in which
he was dumbfounded or shaken on this occasion. But he was also not
bewildered or disconcerted.
Or discombobulated.
He knew that Darkfang had used evil
magic, hidden in his ill-fitting green cargo trousers, to trick the
lovely but dumb princess into loving him...
Willymm knew
he faced a choice. He could let Haryatte be ensnared by a man who
thought having blonde highlights constituted having a personality. Or
he could take up his sword and fight. Fight for their love. Battle
for their love. Do combat for their love. Engage in a confrontation
or struggle for their love.
Willymm had made his choice.
(The second one).
