I'm in Mumbai, getting caught up in wedding fever (my cousin's getting hitched -- we're trying to keep her sane). Haven't posted because no pictures have been taken other than stuff at the engagement, and you know I don't post personal photos. Other than that I've been trying to catch as many movies as I can in between all the wedding madness that accompanies and Indian wedding, and all so far have been good.

I don't think I've ever put up any good photos of my typewriter. It's a Remington Rand which I found on ebay in India a couple of years back. Fully working, great unevenly inked text, round keys, good satisfying sound -- everything that screams "typewriter!" in big monospaced fonts.

As for nanowrimo, I didn't even make a dent it in (7500 words), and this was not just because of my laziness and indecision vis a vis plot, but also the untimely appearance of some deadlines (at least they were paying projects). So, I may not have bragging rights for another year, but I have one more novel to write.

That brings me up to around 3.7 lifetimes-worth of work left to do.

Five more pictures after the jump. Click 'read more' kids.

V

“My name is Savant. I’m Five hundred years, nineteen days and seven and a half hours old, give or take a few. I’m an innate traveller and portalsmith, which means that if there weren’t a billion magical locks put on this place -- all of which are adding up to give me one hell of a headache, mind you -- I would be able to leave either by disappearing -- physically, not visually -- into a parallel universe, where, I’m sure, I would be now resting on a perfectly combed and polished white sand beach sipping a cool coconut-based drink from the cleavage of a dark-skinned woman I don’t know the name of. Your turn.”

The creature was silent for around three minutes. Then, he asked, “What’s a coconut?”

A-ha.

~~~~~~~~

From Chapter 3 of 'How to Prove Your Insanity' -- ("Conversation with a Monster")

Well, actually this looks more like the Kubrick treatment...

First of all, it was a lot quicker to get things done. My last physical body was a large ship, and while it was the only body I had known for centuries and I knew how to use it to the fullest, it was still a large, cumbersome ship. A sword hilt is significantly smaller and has no moving parts.

Also it probably doesn’t develop a barnacle problem.

Barnacles on the hull always made me break out in a rash. Not the ship, mind you -- that would be silly -- but my physical manifestation.

There were a few problems regarding the sword’s blade. I sort of knew how to manifest it using an anger response, but once it was out I didn’t know how to control it. I think a lion’s mane of purple flames shooting out of an otherwise benign looking hilt was what finally made one of guards leave and call for his superior just a few minutes ago.

~~~~~

From Chapter 2 of 'How to Prove Your Insanity' -- ("Learning to Smell")

The Dubai Marina is a property development roughly halfway between the city centre and the industrial free zone at Jebel Ali, and is right now the most visible of Dubai's freehold boom. There are probably a hundred skyscrapers -- all residential or hotel buildings -- in only a few square kilometres (parking and traffic will be an utter nightmare when this is all complete, mark my words) with an artificial waterway running through it. Only around a third of the buildings are done but because it's fully accessible to the public you can get some great contruction photos. Two more after the jump.

I thought for a moment, and had it.

“Ahem... ‘Three Art Collectors, Met in a wood, One bought a metal detector, The other two had names like tepid watercress. Ardria, Korohasink, Lou, Lou.’”

The space between the trees contorted like a circus performer and stretched out again. I walked past it without incident.

Now, you can’t really tell from the nonsense gibberish in the spell, but I had changed the trap. Firstly, it didn’t affect me anymore, but anyone who happened to stumble upon it would not have their atoms scattered across four irrational dimensions -- they would suddenly find themselves unharmed and in the position of museum guard -- complete with silly uniform -- standing vigilantly in front of an abstract work of used coffee-grounds falling from a suspended filter onto old copies of The Evening Bastard. They would only remember who they were for the two seconds during which the coffee grounds fell at thirty-seven second intervals. I had thought of giving away only one second of memory, but I had to give the poor kids some chance of finding their own way back.

As to the spell itself, I rarely ever say things out loud, and when I do they sound like the gibberish I had just spoken. The vocal part of spellwork is usually the smallest part of what is actually being processed in your head; it’s a condensed set of syllables that branch out into entire chapters of thought and speech, smell and sound that crashes around in your brain. Some spells, you lose track of time. To any observer you may have spent three seconds talking about autumnal lamp-posts, but for you it may have felt like hours.

You can, of course, buy one of those fancy books that belong to Magic Type 12, but there’s barely any fun to be had in flipping open a page, pointing at a target and shouting, “Wombulionga!” or whatever.

~~~

I hope to make these random writing excerpts into a regular feature. This one's from chapter three of the newly rechristened How to Prove Your Insanity. Hope you liked it.

I still haven't made much of a dent in the novel, but I still have seven days to reach the ever elusive 50k. Much of my poor wordcount at this point can be attributed to sheer laziness and a sudden rediscovery of Super Mario Brothers. Those bastard hatchet twins, I tell you...

Other than the first chapter being in heavy need of revision (which is one of the reasons you may not see text of the novel until December 1st, as I'm going to press on for wordcount sake rather than fix it now), the title just doesn't sit with me. Sixteen Permutations has a specific image as a book for me -- I know the kind of mood a book with that title should have, and I know what kind of cover it has -- and I get none of that feeling from the novel I'm writing.

So, as of now, this project is no longer called Sixteen Permutations. I'm temporarily calling it How To Prove Your Insanity until I can find a better one. That's the strange thing about going into a novel knowing its title -- chances are the novel you end up with is not the one you thought you were writing, and the title must be shed or kept aside.

I'm pretty sure that one day a novel called Sixteen Permutations will be written by me, and it will be the one whose cover image is sitting in my head --  but not right now.

Right now I have a wordcount to catch.

V