Well, there you have it: my blog has been re-designed. This new palette, this new structure, these new fonts and images bespeak a certain je ne sais quoi: an addition of mirthfulness, a subtraction of seriousness, an addition of a certain aloofness and nearly-as-holy-as-thouness to which the previous incarnation of this webdevice could not attain. Or, you know, whatever.
It's funny how things don't ever actually even once ever progress smoothly, but rather lurch along in dangerous, frightful jerks. Just the other day this blog was rather different (of course, it's still pretty similar; but I think we can all agree that there's a significant separation between a mostly red theme and a mostly blue one). Some days, I write a lot, and some days, I play a lot of video games. Some days I despair I may never write again; others I swear off the pixel juice. Yes, yes, this life is a strange one. Yours probably is, too.
Anyhoo, the gist of the motivation to recreate the visual subtexture of this blog was the general realization over a certain period of indefinite time (this one thing, and only this thing in all the things that have ever happened in the world of things, having happened gradually [I swear]) that I didn't really associate with some of the associations I had until now made. I realized, for example, upon perusing my LibraryThing, that I don't even read genre fiction (N.B. that the majority of genre books on that list, like the Octavia Butler and the Lavie Tidhar and the Cory Doctorow and the R. Scott Bakker, I abandoned after nary a centain of pages). Not only do I not read the genre magazines to which I submit and profess adoration (in the hopes that my fanboyishness will earn paycheques); I don't even read the books! Geez! Wowza! Yikes! (I mean, okay, hold on, I read some stuff, like things edited by Ann & Jeff VanderMeer, and, I guess, things they suggest on their various Internet mouthpieces - so, yeah, I'm a big fanboy, but back off it bro you don't know what you're getting into.) And yet my fiction, my fiction, the stuff that I churn from the depths of my belly, is so obviously nothing less than genre. It may smack of pretentiousness, yes, it may lack good character development, this is true also: but it is most definitely genre. It is most definitely the product, ultimately, of elves (or, at least, of black-hole-monsters), and this alone demonstrates how rooted I am in something I don't actually appear to enjoy.
Oh, well. Whatever, amirite? Such is life. I'll have to continue being not exactly what the magazines are looking for; I'll have to continue to foist my vision upon an undesiring public. Make it so!
Now, please foist this blog upon yourselves. I have more important things to do.