Laws of Compassion

February 6

One nice thing about a fondness for history is the sense of perspective it provides. Whenever I become horrified about the behavior of various governments (especially that which rules over me), I just think back to, say, the Aztec theocracy, and their practice of ritually killing tens of thousands of people per year. Or the all-powerful shoguns, like Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, who instituted the Laws of Compassion to protect dogs (which he loved fanatically). Killing, injuring, or even ignoring a dog were all offenses punishable by death, and by some estimates as many as 200,000 people were executed or exiled for violating those laws.

Of course, "It could be worse" has always struck me as cold comfort, but it's evident that human government has come a long way, which gives me some hope for the future...

I've written another, oh, 700 words on my new story, which I suppose needs nomenclature -- call it the Sigmund story, then (though it's not even remotely about Freud. I don't think. Freud might argue that, subconsciously, it is about him, but he's dead, so I suppose he won't argue any such thing). It's a very odd, possibly even convoluted story. Heather read it and said the characters were more vivid than they usually are in my work, and I said "Yeah, they're 4-color vivid." Very comic-book, larger-than-life characters, all very odd and arrayed in opposition to one another, with bits of twisted archetypes bleeding from their edges. It could be very good, and more complexly plotted than my stories tend to be. Or it could collapse under the weight of its own ambition. But, hell, that's the whole point, isn't it, to push? I was corresponding with Jenn today about writing, and how some writers want nothing more than to publish, publish, publish! and honestly don't seem to give a damn whether or not the stuff they're writing is any good. I can certainly understand the demonic need to see your work in print -- cacoethes scribendi! -- but ultimately the thing that matters is the work, the words on the page, the way those words affect people. I'd rather try to write great stories and fail than complacently turn out stories of the sort I know I can write competently...

It was kest's last day at A Certain Magazine. We ate pizza, drank a bit of her mead (she gave me a bottle, too, la), bid her farewell. Kest tried to explain to the officebaby (who is admittedly now an officetoddler) that she wouldn't be coming back, ever, but it's hard to make a two-year-old understand that...

I came home tonight, and was cranky, and took a nap. Woke about 9:00 and decided to go out, and my darling Heather wanted to go with me! So we drove to Berkeley, to Au Coquelet, and had dinner and talked and I drank very good coffee. We worked a bit, too -- she did some beautiful freewriting, and I worked on the Sigmund story. I tried to convince her to write a story about elves building a funeral pyre for Santa Claus out of discarded Xmas trees, but she did not take to the idea. I doubt I'll write it, so I give you the idea, gratis -- make of it what you will! Around 11:15 we decided to come home, and left, pausing in the street to admire an apartment building with nice bay windows and a giant metal gecko affixed to the wall. I want to live in a building decorated with a giant lizard! Heather says maybe someday we can have a giant lizard on our house. Something to hope for.

Now it's late(ish), and I'll say farewell...

Words written since February 1, 2003: 3,600

Words written since last entry:
700

Stories written this month:

• "Living with the Harpy"
• The Train Story (tentatively "Helljack"), with Mike Jasper