There are places in the world where the laws of the Universe are not applied in the correct order. Since it is built in the shape of a tessaract, Costa Satanas has become one of those places. It is a magnet for those whose fate is still to be decided: those who have reached the beginning, or those who require an end.
Two novels already in progress, plus one plotted out and ready to go should I get the grant to do it, and what happens?
The plot of the first third of the Father Muerte novel falls on me from out of the sky, and 1000 words are written in a day.
Seanie, you’re my best and oldest friend, and you know how it is: some days, you don’t choose the music, it chooses you. Doesn’t matter about the screwed up face of the sour old octogenarian in the next cubicle, or the sniggers of the pony-tailed whelp in his washed-clean bandanna and his Slipknot tee. Some days, you just gotta fulfil the need: back to back, both albums, one after the other.
It’s been seventeen years, old friend, since that summer break we spent camped out at your place because your parents had gone to Europe or somesuch for three months and you had the run of the place: French doors open, couple of hundredweights worth of pool salt making the water too acidic to swim in, a diet of nachos and whatever the 7-11 had available… and two brand new CDs on constant rotation, 24 hours a day, for the entire break. Seventeen frigging years! Can you believe it?
Some days, the music chooses you, and Friday morning, at this work I’m forced to attend, surrounded by these people, oh, it was necessary.
It’s been seventeen years, Seanie, and even though I haven’t put them on for years, I still prefer Use Your Illusion II.