I'm writing SF, apparently. To the perfectly wonderful and incongruous soundtrack of rembetiko classics. You can tell from the title of the post that 'Utopia' is somewhere on my mind, although I feel the need to declare that my slow, softboiled SF effort is neither inspired by More's or anyone else's 'Utopia'.
I cannot, of course, guarantee that my story will not be called 'Night of the Traniborgs'.
I got back negatives for my holiday photos. All distressingly dull, as usual, but I'll excuse myself, because most of my holiday was spent climbing boulders and skipping waves. And the damned camera, the damned camera is an automatic. What can I say.
I recently translated a Bangla children's story into... into Scots, and will be posting it here as soon as I can preface it with the most articulate disclaimers possible. I wasn't expecting a standing ovation or a gift certificate, but I had mentioned that I'd be translating into Scots the previous day; the professor seemed comfortable enough reading it out; and then to say 'this is not English'. I mean: no, it's not English. Nor is it Scottish Gaelic. It's Scots. I'm not an authentic writer of Scots and I wasn't trying to pull that off, but whatever I did I did consciously. Is there something disconnect between what I was supposed to take from that observation and what I did? As a somelongtime fan of Scots-in-writing I found it fascinating. It's not perfect, it's probably laughable, but I understand the politics of this, I think, and some of the resonances between the languages made it worthwhile and pleasurable enough to pursue. So. There. Shrug.