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You’re writing is something special, Andrew. I know it would take me 20 pages to get that much story into a story.
Very good again, Andrew. Questions to be answered later.
… but …
“rip a whole in the fabric of causality?” I read on trying to figure out if that was intentional or not. Maybe you did rip a whole.
Thank you, Judge. I really appreciate that right now. (Although in fairness, if I recall rightly, in the most recent part of Once Upon a Spinning-Wheel I think it did take me the full 20 pages. But that was a bad day on the fairway, you understand. Maybe if I use a niblick?)*
*: I always did like Wodehouse’s golf stories. And I’m not even sure what a niblick looks like.
A nine iron.
Er, I remember noticing that when I was going through. I can’t even claim type-gremlins on that one. Won’t be a moment.
Wait, questions? Um, would you believe I was told there would be no math . . . ?
The nature of time ghosts. The identity of the repairman. If you repair rifts in time, do you charge by the hour?
Huh, you don’t see many knights in plus-fours these days. Which reminds me of a very interesting story, which since you are so interested, I will now proceed to relate . . .
The real ones, with “Sir” prepended to their names, probably can be caught on the links about as often as anyone else. Merlin says “golf is a good walk spoiled” but I think he lifted that from Mark Twain.
Can I get you a cup of tea? I think I’d have to write it to find out more definitely. This one just sort of started emerging about an hour ago and left me blinking in the starlight, so to speak.
Best way. Don’t overthink it.
Another lovely vision, Andrew.
Mind that if you stitch the stories together into a longer work, that you pay attention to the details.
People have been asking “who killed the chauffeur” for 81 years now.
An elephant crossed with a rhinoceros.
Thank you. Hope you enjoyed it.
Thank you, I’ll try and keep that in mind.
That doesn’t help . . .
On the other hand, if you do write something as good as Chandler’s The Big Sleep, it won’t matter much. When Howard Hawks who was directing the movie based on the book asked that very question, Chandler responded “hell if I know.”
I love that story.
Lovely story! Leaves much scope for the imagination.
I’ve been considering making a little pitch-and-putt course behind my house. I’ll need a niblick and a putting cleek, but I don’t want to have to buy a whole set of clubs just to get those two.
Intriguing story, by the by.
Of course they charge by the hour. The union wouldn’t have it otherwise.
Very interesting indeed, as usual for Andrew’s writing.
OK, I said “interesting”, because I was, well, somewhat floored by the beauty of the writing but had no immediate way to define what I liked so much. Here’s a metaphor: there are two main themes to The Twilight Zone.
The one we all know and can hum, on strings and bongo drums, is by French experimental composer Marius Constant. And that’s not the one I’m comparing Andrew’s time travel story to.
The other theme is the first season’s, by famous film composer Bernard Herrmann. It’s not easily hum-able, so it’s harder to remember, but it was captivating, subtle and mysterious. That’s why it reminds me of Andrew’s writing. You could look it up on YouTube.
Eddies in the time-space continuum.
I’m not sure what manner of union employee others imagine when they think of someone fixing time but I like to imagine a plumber. That might be because I find the idea of time-plungers and time-snakes to be amusing.
Wait … whut?
Captures the “flow of time”, too.
And time reclamation plants — time being limited as it is.
Do you happen to know if Yevgeny Zamyatin picked up any of his scene-setting techniques from you? It would have required a working time-travel mechanism, of course. (I’m currently finishing up his novel, “We.”)
“Is your openings, friend Andrew, something’s got to be done about your openings! Quick, get in time vehicle, no time to explain!”
(Aside from blushing I don’t know quite why, I hadn’t heard of that writer before. Maybe people I’ve liked have read him, though, and something’s sort of filtered through. Or maybe there’s just something in the starlit air. Never know.)