hee!

Making Light's current post is making me snort Earl Grey up my nose (probably good for my sinuses). Project: to conceptualise the novel capable of winning ALL of the major SF awards - some of which are based on very, very obscure criteria. It involves giant interstellar squid. Gay giant interstellar squid. It's worth scrolling down the comments, some of the limericks are hysterical.

On a not unrelated topic, I'm loving Michel Houellebecq's H. P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life, which is not so much a Lovecraft biography as an extended meditation on the significance of the mythos. His opening sentence tends to sum up my personal creed, at least as relates to certain kinds of literature:

Life is painful and disappointing. It is useless, therefore, to write new realistic novels. We generally know where we stand in relation to reality and don't care to know any more.

Damn straight.