The Journey of SILVER BROWN

#NaNoWriMo

This website was launched on October 28 of last year. I chose that date for two reasons. The first reason being it’s my usual shtick to unleash things upon the earth either on the seventh day of a calendar month, or on a date that corresponds with a number divisible by seven. That’s just how I roll. The second reason is that I wanted to launch the site in time for November, which among other things is National Novel Writing Month. Or NaNoWriMo (nan-oh-RHYME-oh), as it’s known for short.

The gist of NaNoWriMo is to challenge people to produce a novel of at least fifty thousand words during the month of November. For the benefit of all participants, the rules don’t state that the novel has to be riveting or particularly well-written. Authoring a complete novel of that high a calibre in thirty days or less would be a Herculean undertaking for most people, unless Green Eggs and Ham counts as a novel now and I didn’t get the memo.


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The notable lack of Nobel Prize-worthy material composed during NaNoWriMo is virtually of no concern to all involved, however. It’s not so much about producing the next Hamlet as it is about getting people engaged in the craft of creative writing, so they gain a newfound appreciation for the art. Ultimately, a newfound love of literature itself – a love always stronger and more ubiquitous than we’re ordinarily accustomed to believing it is.

Like many people, I’ve read a lot of books over the years. Not all of them I loved right away. Some were confusing as all shit on the first read, only starting to make sense upon subsequent reads. Some caused a certain churning feeling in my gut with either an absurdly improbable premise or something outright inexcusable, like purple said-bookism abuse. Some books left behind a strong Whiskey Tango Foxtrot aftertaste in my conscience that persisted years after I read the last sentence. Then there are other books that are just plain horrifying. But all in all, I don’t regret reading a single book I’ve ever read. A library is a different plane of existence. A place devoid of regret.


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The Zen of SILVER BROWN

The Curse of Pooh

A strange beast, this Universe is. A.A. Milne wrote many things in his lifetime. Including plenty of books intended for adult audiences. Books he was personally proud of. To his slight chagrin, it was ultimately the Winnie-the-Pooh stories that made him famous. His son, Christopher Robin Milne, bitterly resented him for using him as the namesake and inspiration for the least interesting character in said stories. He had a bitch of a time getting laid because he never outgrew the public image his father gave him as a little boy who likes to play with dolls, and eventually had to marry his cousin. It was a resentment the younger Milne took to his own grave. Yet, it was from that cesspool of chaos and disappointment and familial strife that Winnie-the-Pooh emerged. Like a lotus flower blossoming out of a shark-infested swamp…

Du känner min e-postadress, och jag har inte fått ett otäckt brev från din advokat än. Jag tolkar detta som ett bra tecken. Njut showen.

The Bullhorn of SILVER BROWN

A Fire For Yule (last phoneme optional)

Hark! An anti-miracle of Unnature is unfolding! This literary creature growing like a Xenomorph inside my innards is due to undergo the first of many moltings in a fortnight. It should be quite a ghoulishly surreal sight to behold, although I would advise against touching its discarded exoskeleton without asbestos gloves, lest it sting you all jellyfish-like and summon an unholy swarm of extradimensional maggot-like creatures to feast upon your suddenly withered and gangrenous stub of a hand. Using it like a Frisbee to play catch with your dog probably isn’t such a hot idea either, unless you don’t mind Fido growing an udder and an extra head.

In the meantime, get cozy by the fire. When the thing hatches, you’ll know.