News of the small world:

The other night Ali introduced me as a science fiction writer, which was rather flattering. And flustering, because (a) I can’t remember showing him any of it and (b) I couldn’t even remember the name of the last thing I wrote. GodOfLostMail, apparently, but that was back in 2001.

It’s very odd, what time does to me. I remember writing it, I remember thinking that it failed to say what I wanted it to, that it was far too macabre and pretty poor at explaining the central conceit. As I read it now I feel the same disappointment, but I can’t remember what it was I wanted to say.

At the risk of turning this into a livejournal entry (c’mon, kiddies, we all had our little goth journals back in the eighties, you’re not that special just because you’re online): I think I quit writing because of that continual disappointment, that shouting into the void. Now I realize that I had the whole idea wrong, that I should have been writing for the enjoyment of those around me, instead of trying to create some perfect and immutable instance of glory.

But now I never seem to have the time for it. School is more exhausting than I anticipated. It’s going well: I’m working on a paper and I should be out of here in a year and a half. Which means I have to start looking for jobs soon. Europe, I hope. Paris or Munich or Berlin. I need an adventure, but God knows whether a postdoc will give me any more time than I have now. C’est la vie. Omnia mutantur nos et mutamur in illis. I think ultimately I find relating to the people around me more satisfying than banging on a typewriter all night.