Some time ago, when pondering the meaning of life, I came to the conclusion that the entire infinity of space and time popped into existence at the moment of my birth with one sole intention. To annoy me. It's worked.
Then I noticed it was annoying a lot of other people too. So that megalomanic paranoia abated. The universe hated everyone equally. It wasn't solely aimed at me.
Yesterday I took a wrist-resting day. Rather than hammer away at a novel-length story (the dystopia) I decided to work on a short story. There are lots of ideas on this hard disk, some sketched out, some half-done, some no more than titles. One concerns Caleb Small, a very tall and wide man who happens to be psychic. It hasn't progressed beyond the title because that's all he generated. The title is 'Large Medium Small'. One day he'll tell his story but he doesn't have one yet. It will have to be a comedy.
The one I decided to work on yesterday concerned a lake monster. The monster isn't in the lake. It is the lake. Okay, that's right out in the realms of total fantasy. Nothing in the news can spoil that one in the way it keeps catching up with the dystopia. Not even a universe finely tuned to irritate me personally could mess that story up.
Oh, come on. This isn't funny any more.
I think I'll write about a fatal disease that only affects politicians, or a comet that pulverises only Westminster. Perhaps about the day someone in a government somewhere grew a brain or maybe I'll just bring the stone owl to life in Bohemian Grove.
Then dare the world to make it come true.
Or maybe... a story about someone who thinks he predicts the future when in fact he's been writing it... hmmm. It would break my only taboo. I have never had a main character who is a writer by profession because it seems lazy to me. But maybe just this once.