Insomnia Theatre

I’ve been making a habit out of reading some Howard Phillips Lovecraft every night before bed, which is probably the worst possible time to be reading Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Normally it’s not a problem, as the endings get predictable at a certain point – At the Mountains of Madness avoids this to an extent, as does The Shadow Over Innsmouth, but I won’t get into that here, because tonight I was finishing up The Shadow Out of Time. Its ending was more predictable, which should have meant a good night’s sleep. However, I still wasn’t tired, so I decided to pop on some Futurama to fall asleep to, picking at random – or so I thought – A Bicyclops Built for Two.

Bicyclops is a solid episode, poking fun at one of my favorite shows, Married… With Children and just generally being full of laughs. Sleep soon began to fill my mind. However, as I neared the end of the episode, something occured.

The Shadow Out of Time is the story of the Yith, a time-travelling alien race. In the story, they’re described thusly:

They seemed to be enormous, iridescent cones, about ten feet high and ten feet wide at the base, and made up of some ridgy, scaly, semi-elastic matter. From their apexes projected four flexible, cylindrical members, each a foot thick, and of a ridgy substance like that of the cones themselves.
These members were sometimes contracted almost to nothing, and sometimes extended to any distance up to about ten feet. Terminating two of them were enormous claws or nippers. At the end of a third were four red, trumpetlike appendages. The fourth terminated in an irregular yellowish globe some two feet in diameter and having three great dark eyes ranged along its central circumference.

And here I am, laying in bed, having absorbed this information less than an hour before, when I see this.

Sweet literary allusions aren’t nearly as cool when it’s nearly three in the morning and you’ve been up too late reading Lovecraft. Your mind is primed for insanity. I’m lucky I didn’t have to change my pants.

So. We’ll see if I get to sleep tonight.

A Real Person Would Reference a Chameleon Here; I’m Too Geeky For That

Today, I feel like Alcazar.

It’s one thing when I rip off the style of the Venture Bros. in my writing. I can live with that. Only non-late-night show that I actually watch on TV besides Good Eats, and that’s more of a ‘Hey, Good Eats is on!’ thing than something I tune in for. Anyway.

I don’t mind a similar style to Venture. I didn’t even beat myself up when I started writing stories with cold opens. That’s very television. But now I’ve been reading a lot of John Hodgman’s stuff, and I’m working on some Wilson, and I see that I’ve written the following line:

Past the dish area was storage and the walk-in freezer. Accounts that say that there was once a body kept in the freezer are unproven.

I can hear that, in my head, as being said in John Hodgman’s voice. That scares me a little. It’s said that good artists borrow and great artists steal, which I understand and totally agree with – do note the Creative Commons tag on my sidebar, if you will. I mean, if for some ungodly reason you want to write Varendil into something, by all means, do it. Just send credit back my way and remember that he skips on the easy jokes.

My point is that I don’t mind borrowing from other people, but when my writing starts to reflect my current input this highly, I get scared. I start wondering if everything I write is self-parody, I think about re-reading old stuff to get back in ‘the Wilson mood,’ and I start to feel like Alcazar when his many brides start beating his ass – like I’m shifting from one form to another, parts of me stuck in between, my head in one shape, my legs in another, and I worry about my ‘real form.’

On the other hand, I am a whore for making people laugh, so I’m gonna keep this shit up until you stop caring.

Long Time Coming

Ugh. It’s decidedly easy not to write when the rest of your life sea changes from somewhat-professional school to totally relaxed summer. I do intend to work on that. I’m kicking a few separate story ideas around, just waiting to see what flies out. Or maybe what’s left inside, like in Farnsworth’s alien paternity tester.

If you get that reference, I love you.

I’ve also come down with what is clearly some form of leprosy that the doctor, in complete denial, is calling mere strep throat. I should have asked to see that quack’s diploma.

In other news, it’s summer again, which means it’s time for the new Pixar movie. The trailer sold me, and I guess the reviews are good? Go see it, enjoy yourselves.

I think I’m going to go make a sandwich and down some more water. Still feeling dehydrated. Lousy plague. To my fans awaiting writing, I apologize once more. Right now my days are split between this, this, this, this, these people, and this.