oh fer the love of ... !

[truepenny]

So help me, I just figured out the main plot arc of The Sidhe Tigers, the postcolonial literature of elves baseball novel.

This is indirectly elisem's fault, because Sidhe Tigers is her work, as is Engineering for Elves and Eating the Dark Flower, and last night she put up earrings called Elves in the Wheatfield Breakdown: a song for banjo, which I was not, alas, quick enough on the draw to bag. But it made me start thinking about The Sidhe Tigers again. And this morning I know things I didn't know last night.

The human protagonist is an African-American slugger named Marigold Dempsey. Last night I didn't know there was a human protagonist.

I don't really groove with the concept of Muses. What I think I have is Cats of Creativity. And one of them just dropped half a very dead vole on my foot.

Comments

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

And cats don't really understand why you still need to go to the grocery store for a gallon of milk and some cucumbers when they've dropped this lovely partial vole right there on your foot. Yah. Like that.

[fidelioscabinet.livejournal.com]

I now have a vision of Homer smiting his bloomin' lyre, and singing "Sing, Goddess of the wrath of Peleus'..." at which point Calliope hands him a snakes-in-a-can container and tells him to buzz off because she's not in the mood to do more than that for him just then.

[elisem.livejournal.com]

What I think I have is Cats of Creativity. And one of them just dropped half a very dead vole on my foot.

For the vole, partial or whole, that thou hast given me today, may I be truly thankful.

[cynthia1960.livejournal.com]

I suppose half a dead vole is better than the Massive Hairball of Distraction.

[vass]

If they were Rats of Creativity, they'd chew your hair and possibly your fingernails, occasionally lick your fingers in an affectionate/hungry sort of way, and you'd get the ideas by accident when you're cleaning your desk and find little caches of ideas they've stashed for later.

And they'd very literally try to run off with your pen.

[saoba.livejournal.com]

and last night she put up earrings called Elves in the Wheatfield Breakdown: a song for banjo, which I was not, alas, quick enough on the draw to bag.

I am the Terrible Person who bagged the earrings in question, because the name was setting off the story-alarm* in my head. Elise does that to me.

The earrings arrived today, and were greeted with a crow of delight. Himself was following me up the walk and said, 'Ah. Lioness baubles?' because he recognises that particular noise.

I opened the box and found myself tempted to apologise the Elves in the Wheatfield for not being you.

* The story alarm makes a 'whoop whoop ring' sound that appears to live just above and behind my eyes.