“His eyes seemed to root back under all the bulk of that forehead, too thick, too jammy, all full of resistive meats and fluids; exhausting to cut into sections, should such a thing come up.”
I think I may have the turkey sweats.
All Christmas mini-rolls already consumed well before Christmas Day, regardless of the amount stockpiled. The great tradition continues.
Lovecraftian office space.
Wondered why I could see a reflection of a cat in the TV. Probably time to trim the beard a tad.
Something I wasn’t expecting with ChatGPT is its non-trivial use in gamifying ‘the blank page’.
As a non-writer sounding board you can feed it some half-thought-through notion for a story, ask it to produce an outline or where to start, then essentially find ways to do the opposite.
If it produces a standard, formulaic approach to an idea, you can then tear that apart, or invert it. You can much more easily see your story, the one that it wouldn’t tell.
Long abandoned technology.
Unexpected ruins.
A little while ago I was sharing the Stable-Diffusion-generated images I use as visual writing prompts–in case they were of any use to others–but stopped when the ‘AI art’ debate really kicked off.
Taking a cue from @Curator and the .art instance guidelines, I may re-start sharing but will self-impose the same basic rules: they’ll be behind a content warning, with an hashtag, noting the generator used. Nothing I post here uses any artist styles in the prompt.
Is there a term like nerdsniping that applies to fiction writers when presented with an endless, winter photography stream of isolated, spooky roads?
Disused, disintegrating factories and schools, near-empty night-time train platforms, odd stones in the hills, distortions seen through glass. All those agoraphobically-vast interior spaces and claustrophobically-forested exterior spaces–the shared art that I find most compelling and comforting here is an almost-overlapping set with childhood bad dreams.
Now remembering the time I caused myself year-long lower back pain by standing up from a sofa the wrong way.
Managed to somehow punch the inside (?) front wall (??) of my washing machine while (quite sedately) lifting clothes into it. Possibly as hard as I’ve punched anything in my life.
The kind of day you can hear the weight of things; cars panting quietly, crackling over the thin snow-on-ice crust.
I’ve never had any interest in Instagram, but so much of what I follow on Mastodon turns out to be superb, starkly moody photography by superb (starkly moody?) photographers.
Mediaeval gigafactories (of the high gothic style) (defunct).
Doors to nowhere.
The forest makes its own light.
Figures of uncertain intent, obscured by mist.