There's something for the writing- it's there, waiting, biding. It's hiding underneath my flow of words. Its mean and quick- and yet deft, and lilyfingered. A few of my favorites have the habit of touching on it. Douglas Adams, with his monstrous intergalactic cocktail having the effect of knocking your brain out with a gold brick wrapped in velvet. I'm sure I've misquoted.
This morning I read Harlan Ellison on the bus, and he, in Angry Candy, was lauding an author I've never read- Theodore Sturgeon- and said of him that he could grab your heart and squeeze it til your life hurt.
WHAM! Its there, somewhere. Running through my fingers like lover's hair.
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