Running Book Review: Interworld

I'm reading Interworld, by Neil Gaiman and some other guy. A colaboration. It's interesting. It seems not to have been written by Neil Gaiman much--it's missing the Neil Gaiman prose. It's missing the Neil Gaiman thing where, even though he's introducing crazy-weird stuff that sometimes doesn't initially make ANY sense, it does in the long run all fit into the same odd tapestry. It sort of seems to be a book written by this other guy based on ideas that Neil Gaiman hadn't finished developing yet.

Sort of weird.

Just a little windswept

They say that characters have minds of their own, and they say that stories can kind of write themselves. I've always been skeptical, because I believe myself to be master of my imaginings.

That's my opening statement. Here's where I'm going:

My novel has been coming in chunks recently. They seem like sizable chunks as I write, and I'm always surprised when, instead of ten pages, I have five. I wondered where the surprise came from until I figures out how much I was actually thinking about this story as I've been writing it. Because of the sheer volume of attention I'm devoting to it two things are happening: when I take breaks, my head hurts; and I truly expect larger chunks of prose.

Admittedly, this novel hasn't, so far, been a shining example of beautiful English, but it has, as it were, been "writing itself" mostly. The beginning I had to force into existence, flinty and sparky and kindling makes story. But then I just sort of steered a little and pointed out scenic attractions; the story's tour guide through the murky parts of my imagination. Just over the last spread, though--the last thirty pages, maybe--I've started to move further back from the front, even. The tour group that my story was had started taking its own initiative, at least that's how it felt. And now I'm, more or less, straggling in the back, trying as hard as I can to just keep up while my tour group of a story hares along at a thousand curiosities a second.

It's gotten so that I like to just take a break every now and then. Not to think about what to put next, but to figure out what just happened so I can understand where I am now.

Comfortingly, I can put it back into a track for a while after that. I'm glad I still have some control over it.

My head hurts.

I, Q?

Q...what is it about our language that has made this letter uncommon? It's as good as many letters, and better than some. It certainly looks nicer than K, and there's more fun to be had out of it than T. Admittedly, it isn't as controversial as R, and hardly more controversial than C, although it rubs shoulders with the middling controversy of L. Because, though, the spheres of influence between Q and L are so disperate, this isn't as prestigeous as it might be.

I think I really know why Q is so uncommon. It's because it's a fake letter, more or less. It's a letter that came about through accidents, typos back in the writing era, and pseudo-organization. It's a new letter, like Y it's compensating for ignorant authority, and like J making noises it ought not for ignorant peonage.

From this point forward, I'm making it my missions to reform the alphabet. The current one is a mess. Sheesh.