Giant cat heads, typewriters, and violins fall from the sky. I managed to scribble a couple paragraphs of hard-boiled paranormal words but that's about it. Scratching my head over the whole thing. I need a story, but all I've got is fragments, badly burned from some house fire up in my brain, only I haven't been fevered in quite some time. You know: the edges curl up all blackeneed and the rest of the paper's yellow. Ink's scratchy. Someone was talking about pirates the other day.
And I keep thinking about old pulp heroes. The Shadow; Lamont Cranston, Margo Lane, his whole callous network of undercover agents working to feed him information or drag his schlumpy ass around town in gypsy taxi cabs because he's from back before masked men had things like Batmobiles or super-speed. Batman and his ridiculous working relationship with Police Commissioner Gordon. Batman's gallery of daddy-got-drunk-and-did-a-bad-thing villains.
Some days I just sit there and list off character names and stare at them until something like a cast emerges, gels, whatever. Like they start relating to each other as real people might, even though they're just collections of words and ideas and shit stuck together with spunk and wallpaper paste, synapses firing off like drunken fratboy fireworks.
What else? What else? I spent money and added to my wardrobe today. Christian made pancakes.