Recalcitrant motherfuckers. What a wonderful phrase. Recalcitrant motherfuckers, ain't no passing craze. Seriously, I love that phrasing, the high-brow meeting the low right in the middle, showing a little bit of imagination and still coming right to the point like a good insult should. It's better in some ways than fish-raping shit-weasel. John Scalzi would be proud of both, I think.
Why in blazes am I thinking of insults, and vulgar ones, at that? I'm not, actually. My imagination has been caught by the concept of low-lifes - thieves, assassins, and the like (not the ordinary, knocking over liquor stores for petty cash type, to quote the movie Easy A "A classy [criminal], like for governors or athletes") - and their lifestyles. Some day, when I'm done with Chef, and have started looking for to publish Nocturne, I want to write about really seedy people, and people you want to keep doing their thing.
What this means is that I have found, at least in small part, something that has sparked my imagination, that I want to write about. It took three beers, a few games of magic, and a conversation about Scott Lynch's Gentleman Bastards, and I have found a light, something that I can latch onto. I want to write... something. I think I'm ready to get back to work. I'm playing with some ideas on both of my current major projects (Chef being one of them), and itching to get back to it.
I am in no way where I want to be, but I am back at work, and I will see you all on Sunday.