Forty-three point four six isotopic density times three, considering the mass of the specimen. Add one-forty-four, plus the product of my experimental equation... I punched the numbers.

43.46 x 3 + 144 + 81.562

Multiply that by 57. Add 9,289... Double the sum... Subtract 58287.8571, and I got...

Fifty-five.

Impossible. I ran the numbers through the calculator again, making painstaking effort to ensure all decimal points were in their proper places.

Fifty-five.

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THUD! Ow, dammit! She dropped a bookshelf on me from behind, that sneaky little horn-having vagrant. It hurt like fury. Discrete logarithms would probably be a little more difficult for a week or so, but I didn't go down. He face sunk as she realized all it did was piss me off.

Her horn lit up again, but I was already in mid leap, rocketing toward her.

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Talked with the wife and kids.

Moving to California.

While I'm trying to finish my novel.

Also, I'm attempting to edit chapters 9 - 12 of Source. Thus, I can release them all within a reasonable time frame instead of this one chapter every two months garbage.

Too much going on.

I was just offered a job at a boutique publishing house in SoCal, and I'm giving it some major consideration. Working at a firm where I'm literally 33% of the editorial staff has always been a dream. The pay is comparable and my wife will be able to get a better job. Decisions, decisions.

Any Bronies in Orange County?

“Gaaah!”

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I write like Vladimir Nabokov. Proof: http://iwl.me/s/c3e0655f
Analyze your writing.

Don't know what to think of that.

Time to cite numbers as vague allusions to sexual aggression, I guess.

Or learn Russian.

*

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I had a bad Friday, but in constitution of said day, I found something out: descriptions of sunrises bother me. Twenty manuscripts crossed my desk, with soaring descriptions of sunrises varying from a paragraph to, in one extreme, two and a quarter pages.

Here I go:

I draped a hoof over my eyes. There was light coming in. Evil, intrusive light.

Oh, great. It was the scheduled sunrise, and I was hungover for it.

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It may be a trite and overused trope (Tolkien, anyone?), but I have a "riddle session" scene in Source planned. Below are some that I've basically pulled out of my ass; all are no doubt permutations of riddles I've heard and assimilated. I've chosen them for their adherence to inherent themes of the narrative. All of you random visitors out there, please feel free to critique my wording, delivery, or just answer the damn riddles and assess their inherent "riddle" value.

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I’m not dead.

I have a wife and two kids, and several other paid writing projects. I feel bad for nothing.

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Creating an entirely original work, made of entirely archetypal elements, is quixotic. There will always be overlaps and comparisons with previously explored themes, characters, and phlebotinum, whether known or not.

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