So, now that you’re done molding the minds of today’s youth do we get the normal URL back?
I am a coward! I fear Google! The normal URL isn’t as high in my search results as it used to be—it seems to be overshot, hilariously, by autogenerated MP3 aggregators that say things like “P__ K__ is a famous star!”—but it’s still hanging around, and I am pusillanimous about hanging the laundry back out while I’m trying to be a businessman.
This is how I try: when I’m not writing my opus I tend to sit at home and learn about software by making idiot coding mistakes, but occasionally I will get on the speaker phone with people who could be described as “directors of major corporations,” though they’re pretty minor major corporations so far, and we confirm that everyone is doing great today, and then we yell proposals and counterproposals into the speaker phone, and we send them to each other for review, and everyone makes noises like their heads are about to pop off with delight. So fucking bizarre. Everyone talks as if there are great orchards of money trees out there waiting for harvest. And money is somewhere, in someone’s hands; and now and then a small, ripe leaf detaches from the tree and wafts down to me, and I stick it in my greedy pocket and look around for more. It is always just about to become a living wage. It is always just possible to believe that there must be a living wage somewhere around here, because the money is somewhere around here, I’ve seen it, only it’s behind my back where I can’t reach; and then I make another coding mistake, and I get back on the phone.
I have a new novel going, with commercial ambitions. You can guess what that means. For the present I’ll call it a potboiler set in the nineteenth century. Word count at left.
