Jason Cordova's Website

We All Float Down Here, Georgie…

With A Screeching Yowl

Funny story:

I had just updated the site when all of a sudden my computer made this pissed-off cat sound. Cat owners, you know which one I’m talking about. That low growl escalating into a high-pitched crescendo, followed by a deep hiss? Yeah, that one.

Well, it made that noise and my computer screen died, and everything froze. I swear (creatively, I’ll add) and reboot the system.

Nothing.

Oh hell.

Try it again.

Same results.

So I hop on my phone (yay, smartphones!) and message my editor, informing him that I would not be able to make his midnight deadline for the 31st. He’s cool with it (thank you, John. I promise to get the story to you by the end of this week) and I proceed to go without my computer for a few days while I wait for a part to come in (ordered a new video card, and also am getting a new power source soon-ish).

Worst. Few. Days. This. Year.

Okay, so it happened to be the first week of the year, and my scale for judging such things is a bit skewed, but yeah… that wasn’t a good way to start the year. At least, that wasn’t the way I wanted to start one. Worst of all, I was reading Pixie Noir by Cedar Sanderson on my computer at the time, and I…. totally lost my place. I hate when I do that. On the plus side, I did get review copies of To Sail a Darkling Sea by John Ringo, and Liberty 1784 by Robert Conroy, both of which I read when the computer was down (yay, Kindle). One I enjoyed immensely, the other was okay. Can you guess which was which?

I’m not entirely sure why, but I’ve gotten more particular about what I read lately. I used to be able to read something for the simple enjoyment of it, but recently I’ve been finding plot holes galore, bad editing and very one-dimensional characters. Maybe it’s from running SBR, or maybe it’s just that now that I’m writing seriously I catch these things more? I have no idea, but it’s pretty frustrating. I don’t dare read Piers Anthony anymore, since I have fond memories of those Xanth books from when I was a teen.

I wonder if all writers become this way. Could explain why some of them turn into crotchety old bastards.

Okay, I’ve got a deadline that I missed. Better get cracking.

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