he’s come home

in

After a couple of years of staring up at the ceiling at The Toys That Time Forgot at least twice per visit and seeing him, waiting, I finally took the plunge this afternoon and brought him down off their ceiling and onto mine:

Perhaps having him and the memories associated – with him and the rest of his long-lost (and possessed of multiple broken legged/armed iterations of the figures of my youth; his "Power Action Punch" was relegated to barely a wave) – Super Power'ed ilk staring at me from his pristine, carded (not even punched!) and plastic-sealed place of honor above my desk will bring some of that magical playfulness of those formative years into whatever I'm hurling out of my fingers at the moment. Or perhaps not – but no matter: he's come home.

"… but rather a matter of a personal micro-culture"

in

While Gibson fuses the idea of "personal micro-culture" here to writing fiction, I've long considered not only all of my writing, fiction or non–, but also my postings into the ether of here as the digital representatives of the personal micro-culture that makes me well, me:

"And thus we are shaped as writers, I believe, not so much by who our favorite writers are as by our general experience of fiction. Learning to write fiction, we learn to listen for our own acquired sense of what feels right, based on the totality of the pleasure (or its lack) that fiction has provided us. Not direct emulation, but rather a matter of a personal micro-culture."

Recording (and refreshing my memory of) it in this space as a sort of statement of creative intent for the incoming year.