No one, not even the rain, has such small hands

I was going to continue International Honor Your Influences Week with Howard Pyle (as the author of Pepper & Salt and The Wonder Clock), but my observances were cut off by having my computer stolen. In its place, I offer some short shameful confessions:

I've written my first fanfic, as a sestina, of a novel my wife hasn't finished writing.

Chobits is rilly addictive, despite CLAMP's blatant manipulation and long flowing hair fetish.

I'm intimidated enough by the story I'm working on now that I'm afraid of psyching myself into writing it badly.*

All my old email (and address book) was lost through bad backups.

ETA: Not only is there 17th century tentacle porn, there's 17th century poetry about wearing underwear on one's head. (not a confession)

* ETA2: Since confessing this, today something unexpected happened and suddenly I'm improvising story instead of setting things up. It opens the scope out even more, but I'm feeling a lot better about it now. When in doubt, steal from Aristophanes.

---L.

On Wenlock Edge (Tiddly Pom) the wood's in trouble (Tiddly Pom)

While going through restored old files, I came across this poem from A Shropshire Pooh:

From far, from stream and gorse-bush
   And Hundred-Acre Wood,
The stuffing of life to fill me
   Rolled hither: so it should.

Now — for a stitch I tarry
   Or I will fall apart —
Take me in hand and sew me:
   I'll show you where to start.

Patched now, and I, old favorite,
   Stay worn but get no worse;
And to the wind's twelve quarters
   I'll hum my endless verse.

Speaking of shameful confessions....

---L.

On Wenlock Edge (Tiddly Pom) the wood's in trouble (Tiddly Pom)

While going through restored old files, I came across this poem from A Shropshire Pooh:

From far, from stream and gorse-bush
   And Hundred-Acre Wood,
The stuffing of life to fill me
   Rolled hither: so it should.

Now — for a stitch I tarry
   Or I will fall apart —
Take me in hand and sew me:
   I'll show you where to start.

Patched now, and I, old favorite,
   Stay worn but get no worse;
And to the wind's twelve quarters
   I'll hum my endless verse.

Speaking of shameful confessions....

---L.