#worldglass — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #worldglass, aggregated by home.social.
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#WordWeavers SEP30: What stereotypes do your MCs deal with in their world?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Persius swung off to the left arm of the hall and took us to a door. Pausing after putting his hand on the door-handle, Persius turned back to me and said "This is the records department, you will probably be coming here fairly often to drop off reports" and opened the door for me.
When I stepped in I was stopped suddenly by a surprisingly small space, just standing room, immediately in front of a window-slot that separated us from the 10 or so people spread across three rows of desks, the front most of which was right against the window slot such that I nearly fell on to it. Everybody here wore tawdry shirts and brown arm-bands and there were piles of tablets just about everywhere, some almost ceiling height.
"Were you born in a tent!? Close the bloody door!" came the shout from the back of the room. Behind the desks was another, smaller, window-slot but higher up the wall so that it had a commanding position over the desks and in this personal room overlooking the others sat an angry man. Old, but displeased at being old. Grey haired, but not bald. Small, but sharp eyes. He wore a fine quality shirt that had buttons and a collar rather than a simple lace knot at the neck. Over this was a brown waistcoat with a fine silver chain attached across the chest joining the sides. His arm-band was a large silver affair made of two bands joined in the middle by a mix of straight, slanted and crossing lines which made up the writing system used here.
I was stunned for a moment by the sudden and unexpected insult; yes, I was born in a tent but I do know how to close a door thank-you-very-much. Everywhere I went I had heard no end of insinuations that goat-herders were ignorant and uncultured, most of them aimed at me, because goat-herders were considered the least civilised people in society --- even slavery was respected more. The only thing lower than goat-herders was wild animals, and people raised by wild-animals. It did not help that my life isolated from the rest of the #worldglass fulfilled every perceived stereotype of a goat-herder there was.
"Morning Gregory" came Persius' voice calmly as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. I had to step aside for him to be able to fit into the small space up-front.
"I see you've found another feckless goat-fucker to torment me" came the warm greeting back.
"Oh nothing so bad as that," Persius replied pleasantly, "good with numbers, might be running the merchant's department before you know it."
"And camels might fly. What's the kid got? I haven't got all day to chat."
Persius looked down at me and pointed at the knapsack. I snapped out of my shock and fumbled with the bag trying to get the tablet out of it. "Morning manifest from Reggie" Persius explained buying me time. The thin older lady at the front-desk reached forward and I passed them the tablet. Gregory was pleasantly surprised by the mention of Reggie; "That arsehole? Alright, job's done, now get out of my sight". Persius was already opening the door for me and I hastened myself outside.
Once he had closed the door, shutting the records room away from sight, he looked down at me, smiling. I was still slightly shaken by how incredibly rude the man had been, "Did you set me up?" I asked Persius who was getting much enjoyment from my reaction.
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
-
#WordWeavers SEP30: What stereotypes do your MCs deal with in their world?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Persius swung off to the left arm of the hall and took us to a door. Pausing after putting his hand on the door-handle, Persius turned back to me and said "This is the records department, you will probably be coming here fairly often to drop off reports" and opened the door for me.
When I stepped in I was stopped suddenly by a surprisingly small space, just standing room, immediately in front of a window-slot that separated us from the 10 or so people spread across three rows of desks, the front most of which was right against the window slot such that I nearly fell on to it. Everybody here wore tawdry shirts and brown arm-bands and there were piles of tablets just about everywhere, some almost ceiling height.
"Were you born in a tent!? Close the bloody door!" came the shout from the back of the room. Behind the desks was another, smaller, window-slot but higher up the wall so that it had a commanding position over the desks and in this personal room overlooking the others sat an angry man. Old, but displeased at being old. Grey haired, but not bald. Small, but sharp eyes. He wore a fine quality shirt that had buttons and a collar rather than a simple lace knot at the neck. Over this was a brown waistcoat with a fine silver chain attached across the chest joining the sides. His arm-band was a large silver affair made of two bands joined in the middle by a mix of straight, slanted and crossing lines which made up the writing system used here.
I was stunned for a moment by the sudden and unexpected insult; yes, I was born in a tent but I do know how to close a door thank-you-very-much. Everywhere I went I had heard no end of insinuations that goat-herders were ignorant and uncultured, most of them aimed at me, because goat-herders were considered the least civilised people in society --- even slavery was respected more. The only thing lower than goat-herders was wild animals, and people raised by wild-animals. It did not help that my life isolated from the rest of the #worldglass fulfilled every perceived stereotype of a goat-herder there was.
"Morning Gregory" came Persius' voice calmly as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. I had to step aside for him to be able to fit into the small space up-front.
"I see you've found another feckless goat-fucker to torment me" came the warm greeting back.
"Oh nothing so bad as that," Persius replied pleasantly, "good with numbers, might be running the merchant's department before you know it."
"And camels might fly. What's the kid got? I haven't got all day to chat."
Persius looked down at me and pointed at the knapsack. I snapped out of my shock and fumbled with the bag trying to get the tablet out of it. "Morning manifest from Reggie" Persius explained buying me time. The thin older lady at the front-desk reached forward and I passed them the tablet. Gregory was pleasantly surprised by the mention of Reggie; "That arsehole? Alright, job's done, now get out of my sight". Persius was already opening the door for me and I hastened myself outside.
Once he had closed the door, shutting the records room away from sight, he looked down at me, smiling. I was still slightly shaken by how incredibly rude the man had been, "Did you set me up?" I asked Persius who was getting much enjoyment from my reaction.
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
-
#WordWeavers SEP30: What stereotypes do your MCs deal with in their world?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Persius swung off to the left arm of the hall and took us to a door. Pausing after putting his hand on the door-handle, Persius turned back to me and said "This is the records department, you will probably be coming here fairly often to drop off reports" and opened the door for me.
When I stepped in I was stopped suddenly by a surprisingly small space, just standing room, immediately in front of a window-slot that separated us from the 10 or so people spread across three rows of desks, the front most of which was right against the window slot such that I nearly fell on to it. Everybody here wore tawdry shirts and brown arm-bands and there were piles of tablets just about everywhere, some almost ceiling height.
"Were you born in a tent!? Close the bloody door!" came the shout from the back of the room. Behind the desks was another, smaller, window-slot but higher up the wall so that it had a commanding position over the desks and in this personal room overlooking the others sat an angry man. Old, but displeased at being old. Grey haired, but not bald. Small, but sharp eyes. He wore a fine quality shirt that had buttons and a collar rather than a simple lace knot at the neck. Over this was a brown waistcoat with a fine silver chain attached across the chest joining the sides. His arm-band was a large silver affair made of two bands joined in the middle by a mix of straight, slanted and crossing lines which made up the writing system used here.
I was stunned for a moment by the sudden and unexpected insult; yes, I was born in a tent but I do know how to close a door thank-you-very-much. Everywhere I went I had heard no end of insinuations that goat-herders were ignorant and uncultured, most of them aimed at me, because goat-herders were considered the least civilised people in society --- even slavery was respected more. The only thing lower than goat-herders was wild animals, and people raised by wild-animals. It did not help that my life isolated from the rest of the #worldglass fulfilled every perceived stereotype of a goat-herder there was.
"Morning Gregory" came Persius' voice calmly as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. I had to step aside for him to be able to fit into the small space up-front.
"I see you've found another feckless goat-fucker to torment me" came the warm greeting back.
"Oh nothing so bad as that," Persius replied pleasantly, "good with numbers, might be running the merchant's department before you know it."
"And camels might fly. What's the kid got? I haven't got all day to chat."
Persius looked down at me and pointed at the knapsack. I snapped out of my shock and fumbled with the bag trying to get the tablet out of it. "Morning manifest from Reggie" Persius explained buying me time. The thin older lady at the front-desk reached forward and I passed them the tablet. Gregory was pleasantly surprised by the mention of Reggie; "That arsehole? Alright, job's done, now get out of my sight". Persius was already opening the door for me and I hastened myself outside.
Once he had closed the door, shutting the records room away from sight, he looked down at me, smiling. I was still slightly shaken by how incredibly rude the man had been, "Did you set me up?" I asked Persius who was getting much enjoyment from my reaction.
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
-
#WordWeavers SEP30: What stereotypes do your MCs deal with in their world?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Persius swung off to the left arm of the hall and took us to a door. Pausing after putting his hand on the door-handle, Persius turned back to me and said "This is the records department, you will probably be coming here fairly often to drop off reports" and opened the door for me.
When I stepped in I was stopped suddenly by a surprisingly small space, just standing room, immediately in front of a window-slot that separated us from the 10 or so people spread across three rows of desks, the front most of which was right against the window slot such that I nearly fell on to it. Everybody here wore tawdry shirts and brown arm-bands and there were piles of tablets just about everywhere, some almost ceiling height.
"Were you born in a tent!? Close the bloody door!" came the shout from the back of the room. Behind the desks was another, smaller, window-slot but higher up the wall so that it had a commanding position over the desks and in this personal room overlooking the others sat an angry man. Old, but displeased at being old. Grey haired, but not bald. Small, but sharp eyes. He wore a fine quality shirt that had buttons and a collar rather than a simple lace knot at the neck. Over this was a brown waistcoat with a fine silver chain attached across the chest joining the sides. His arm-band was a large silver affair made of two bands joined in the middle by a mix of straight, slanted and crossing lines which made up the writing system used here.
I was stunned for a moment by the sudden and unexpected insult; yes, I was born in a tent but I do know how to close a door thank-you-very-much. Everywhere I went I had heard no end of insinuations that goat-herders were ignorant and uncultured, most of them aimed at me, because goat-herders were considered the least civilised people in society --- even slavery was respected more. The only thing lower than goat-herders was wild animals, and people raised by wild-animals. It did not help that my life isolated from the rest of the #worldglass fulfilled every perceived stereotype of a goat-herder there was.
"Morning Gregory" came Persius' voice calmly as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. I had to step aside for him to be able to fit into the small space up-front.
"I see you've found another feckless goat-fucker to torment me" came the warm greeting back.
"Oh nothing so bad as that," Persius replied pleasantly, "good with numbers, might be running the merchant's department before you know it."
"And camels might fly. What's the kid got? I haven't got all day to chat."
Persius looked down at me and pointed at the knapsack. I snapped out of my shock and fumbled with the bag trying to get the tablet out of it. "Morning manifest from Reggie" Persius explained buying me time. The thin older lady at the front-desk reached forward and I passed them the tablet. Gregory was pleasantly surprised by the mention of Reggie; "That arsehole? Alright, job's done, now get out of my sight". Persius was already opening the door for me and I hastened myself outside.
Once he had closed the door, shutting the records room away from sight, he looked down at me, smiling. I was still slightly shaken by how incredibly rude the man had been, "Did you set me up?" I asked Persius who was getting much enjoyment from my reaction.
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
-
#WordWeavers SEP30: What stereotypes do your MCs deal with in their world?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Persius swung off to the left arm of the hall and took us to a door. Pausing after putting his hand on the door-handle, Persius turned back to me and said "This is the records department, you will probably be coming here fairly often to drop off reports" and opened the door for me.
When I stepped in I was stopped suddenly by a surprisingly small space, just standing room, immediately in front of a window-slot that separated us from the 10 or so people spread across three rows of desks, the front most of which was right against the window slot such that I nearly fell on to it. Everybody here wore tawdry shirts and brown arm-bands and there were piles of tablets just about everywhere, some almost ceiling height.
"Were you born in a tent!? Close the bloody door!" came the shout from the back of the room. Behind the desks was another, smaller, window-slot but higher up the wall so that it had a commanding position over the desks and in this personal room overlooking the others sat an angry man. Old, but displeased at being old. Grey haired, but not bald. Small, but sharp eyes. He wore a fine quality shirt that had buttons and a collar rather than a simple lace knot at the neck. Over this was a brown waistcoat with a fine silver chain attached across the chest joining the sides. His arm-band was a large silver affair made of two bands joined in the middle by a mix of straight, slanted and crossing lines which made up the writing system used here.
I was stunned for a moment by the sudden and unexpected insult; yes, I was born in a tent but I do know how to close a door thank-you-very-much. Everywhere I went I had heard no end of insinuations that goat-herders were ignorant and uncultured, most of them aimed at me, because goat-herders were considered the least civilised people in society --- even slavery was respected more. The only thing lower than goat-herders was wild animals, and people raised by wild-animals. It did not help that my life isolated from the rest of the #worldglass fulfilled every perceived stereotype of a goat-herder there was.
"Morning Gregory" came Persius' voice calmly as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. I had to step aside for him to be able to fit into the small space up-front.
"I see you've found another feckless goat-fucker to torment me" came the warm greeting back.
"Oh nothing so bad as that," Persius replied pleasantly, "good with numbers, might be running the merchant's department before you know it."
"And camels might fly. What's the kid got? I haven't got all day to chat."
Persius looked down at me and pointed at the knapsack. I snapped out of my shock and fumbled with the bag trying to get the tablet out of it. "Morning manifest from Reggie" Persius explained buying me time. The thin older lady at the front-desk reached forward and I passed them the tablet. Gregory was pleasantly surprised by the mention of Reggie; "That arsehole? Alright, job's done, now get out of my sight". Persius was already opening the door for me and I hastened myself outside.
Once he had closed the door, shutting the records room away from sight, he looked down at me, smiling. I was still slightly shaken by how incredibly rude the man had been, "Did you set me up?" I asked Persius who was getting much enjoyment from my reaction.
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
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Synopsis: --edit: v2
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass
“Imagine an hourglass except, rather than measuring hours, it counts out aeons. Its circumference is 25'000 miles. The glass walls are 60 miles thick. The sand within forms a desert almost 8'000 miles wide edge-to-edge. The sink-hole in the centre is 200 miles wide and forever growing as the 600 mile mountain-high perimeter falls away.”
Having trekked to the edge of the world and seen with their own eyes the awe-inspiring 60-mile thick glass wall that makes up the Worldglass — the hourglass they live within — our protagonist's conviction of their beliefs is absolute.
They resolve there and then to make the one-way journey to the centre of the Worldglass to see the fabled sink-hole where it is said all departed souls gather.
When they barely survive crossing the impassable desert that has cut off their clan from the rest of civilisation for three-and-a-half centuries, what they find is uncertainty. Their views are seen as primitive, outdated, ignorant. Most think the world is a bowl that rests on the back of a tortoise. Other crazy theories include the world being a sphere (surely everybody would just fall off the bottom!?) Now they fear that everything they were so certain about might not be so certain. What if the fables their clan had held so dearly just echoes of a lie two thousand years old?
Making it to their destination is not without its trials and tribulations. Making first contact and finding their way before getting chased from city to city and sold into slavery, taken to a city within a rock, escaping an unlikely chain of events that leads to [censored for Mastodon]!
* * *
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a novel of world building, discovery, and of finding everything once assumed to be normal and true turned upside down.
If I had to describe what the book feels like, I would say “When a place presses against the heart”. It’s about what it feels like to be somewhere, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feelings. A nostalgia for a place you’re seeing for the first time.
Whilst the story would technically be classed as fantasy, it is a grounded and realistic take set within a world that is fantastical in concept but very normal to its inhabitants. Where the magical appears it is by way of legend and myth, of religion and belief. The book should be perfectly accessible to all fans of historical fiction, alternative history, and adventure.
-
Synopsis: --edit: v2
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass
“Imagine an hourglass except, rather than measuring hours, it counts out aeons. Its circumference is 25'000 miles. The glass walls are 60 miles thick. The sand within forms a desert almost 8'000 miles wide edge-to-edge. The sink-hole in the centre is 200 miles wide and forever growing as the 600 mile mountain-high perimeter falls away.”
Having trekked to the edge of the world and seen with their own eyes the awe-inspiring 60-mile thick glass wall that makes up the Worldglass — the hourglass they live within — our protagonist's conviction of their beliefs is absolute.
They resolve there and then to make the one-way journey to the centre of the Worldglass to see the fabled sink-hole where it is said all departed souls gather.
When they barely survive crossing the impassable desert that has cut off their clan from the rest of civilisation for three-and-a-half centuries, what they find is uncertainty. Their views are seen as primitive, outdated, ignorant. Most think the world is a bowl that rests on the back of a tortoise. Other crazy theories include the world being a sphere (surely everybody would just fall off the bottom!?) Now they fear that everything they were so certain about might not be so certain. What if the fables their clan had held so dearly just echoes of a lie two thousand years old?
Making it to their destination is not without its trials and tribulations. Making first contact and finding their way before getting chased from city to city and sold into slavery, taken to a city within a rock, escaping an unlikely chain of events that leads to [censored for Mastodon]!
* * *
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a novel of world building, discovery, and of finding everything once assumed to be normal and true turned upside down.
If I had to describe what the book feels like, I would say “When a place presses against the heart”. It’s about what it feels like to be somewhere, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feelings. A nostalgia for a place you’re seeing for the first time.
Whilst the story would technically be classed as fantasy, it is a grounded and realistic take set within a world that is fantastical in concept but very normal to its inhabitants. Where the magical appears it is by way of legend and myth, of religion and belief. The book should be perfectly accessible to all fans of historical fiction, alternative history, and adventure.
-
Synopsis: --edit: v2
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass
“Imagine an hourglass except, rather than measuring hours, it counts out aeons. Its circumference is 25'000 miles. The glass walls are 60 miles thick. The sand within forms a desert almost 8'000 miles wide edge-to-edge. The sink-hole in the centre is 200 miles wide and forever growing as the 600 mile mountain-high perimeter falls away.”
Having trekked to the edge of the world and seen with their own eyes the awe-inspiring 60-mile thick glass wall that makes up the Worldglass — the hourglass they live within — our protagonist's conviction of their beliefs is absolute.
They resolve there and then to make the one-way journey to the centre of the Worldglass to see the fabled sink-hole where it is said all departed souls gather.
When they barely survive crossing the impassable desert that has cut off their clan from the rest of civilisation for three-and-a-half centuries, what they find is uncertainty. Their views are seen as primitive, outdated, ignorant. Most think the world is a bowl that rests on the back of a tortoise. Other crazy theories include the world being a sphere (surely everybody would just fall off the bottom!?) Now they fear that everything they were so certain about might not be so certain. What if the fables their clan had held so dearly just echoes of a lie two thousand years old?
Making it to their destination is not without its trials and tribulations. Making first contact and finding their way before getting chased from city to city and sold into slavery, taken to a city within a rock, escaping an unlikely chain of events that leads to [censored for Mastodon]!
* * *
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a novel of world building, discovery, and of finding everything once assumed to be normal and true turned upside down.
If I had to describe what the book feels like, I would say “When a place presses against the heart”. It’s about what it feels like to be somewhere, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feelings. A nostalgia for a place you’re seeing for the first time.
Whilst the story would technically be classed as fantasy, it is a grounded and realistic take set within a world that is fantastical in concept but very normal to its inhabitants. Where the magical appears it is by way of legend and myth, of religion and belief. The book should be perfectly accessible to all fans of historical fiction, alternative history, and adventure.
-
Synopsis: --edit: v2
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass
“Imagine an hourglass except, rather than measuring hours, it counts out aeons. Its circumference is 25'000 miles. The glass walls are 60 miles thick. The sand within forms a desert almost 8'000 miles wide edge-to-edge. The sink-hole in the centre is 200 miles wide and forever growing as the 600 mile mountain-high perimeter falls away.”
Having trekked to the edge of the world and seen with their own eyes the awe-inspiring 60-mile thick glass wall that makes up the Worldglass — the hourglass they live within — our protagonist's conviction of their beliefs is absolute.
They resolve there and then to make the one-way journey to the centre of the Worldglass to see the fabled sink-hole where it is said all departed souls gather.
When they barely survive crossing the impassable desert that has cut off their clan from the rest of civilisation for three-and-a-half centuries, what they find is uncertainty. Their views are seen as primitive, outdated, ignorant. Most think the world is a bowl that rests on the back of a tortoise. Other crazy theories include the world being a sphere (surely everybody would just fall off the bottom!?) Now they fear that everything they were so certain about might not be so certain. What if the fables their clan had held so dearly just echoes of a lie two thousand years old?
Making it to their destination is not without its trials and tribulations. Making first contact and finding their way before getting chased from city to city and sold into slavery, taken to a city within a rock, escaping an unlikely chain of events that leads to [censored for Mastodon]!
* * *
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a novel of world building, discovery, and of finding everything once assumed to be normal and true turned upside down.
If I had to describe what the book feels like, I would say “When a place presses against the heart”. It’s about what it feels like to be somewhere, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feelings. A nostalgia for a place you’re seeing for the first time.
Whilst the story would technically be classed as fantasy, it is a grounded and realistic take set within a world that is fantastical in concept but very normal to its inhabitants. Where the magical appears it is by way of legend and myth, of religion and belief. The book should be perfectly accessible to all fans of historical fiction, alternative history, and adventure.
-
Synopsis: --edit: v2
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass
“Imagine an hourglass except, rather than measuring hours, it counts out aeons. Its circumference is 25'000 miles. The glass walls are 60 miles thick. The sand within forms a desert almost 8'000 miles wide edge-to-edge. The sink-hole in the centre is 200 miles wide and forever growing as the 600 mile mountain-high perimeter falls away.”
Having trekked to the edge of the world and seen with their own eyes the awe-inspiring 60-mile thick glass wall that makes up the Worldglass — the hourglass they live within — our protagonist's conviction of their beliefs is absolute.
They resolve there and then to make the one-way journey to the centre of the Worldglass to see the fabled sink-hole where it is said all departed souls gather.
When they barely survive crossing the impassable desert that has cut off their clan from the rest of civilisation for three-and-a-half centuries, what they find is uncertainty. Their views are seen as primitive, outdated, ignorant. Most think the world is a bowl that rests on the back of a tortoise. Other crazy theories include the world being a sphere (surely everybody would just fall off the bottom!?) Now they fear that everything they were so certain about might not be so certain. What if the fables their clan had held so dearly just echoes of a lie two thousand years old?
Making it to their destination is not without its trials and tribulations. Making first contact and finding their way before getting chased from city to city and sold into slavery, taken to a city within a rock, escaping an unlikely chain of events that leads to [censored for Mastodon]!
* * *
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a novel of world building, discovery, and of finding everything once assumed to be normal and true turned upside down.
If I had to describe what the book feels like, I would say “When a place presses against the heart”. It’s about what it feels like to be somewhere, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feelings. A nostalgia for a place you’re seeing for the first time.
Whilst the story would technically be classed as fantasy, it is a grounded and realistic take set within a world that is fantastical in concept but very normal to its inhabitants. Where the magical appears it is by way of legend and myth, of religion and belief. The book should be perfectly accessible to all fans of historical fiction, alternative history, and adventure.
-
Cover Letter: --edit: v2
In a world drowning in AI slop I have given up programming to write a book about a concept so compelling that it has, thus far, propelled me to 80’000 words, roughly 280 pages (5”×8”), in 9 months: A world and the people within an hourglass the size of Earth. In addition to writing the book, I’ve been running a Patreon with monthly updates to the manuscript and a behind-the-scenes blog that totals another 25’723 words of content describing the daily writing and planning progress.
I started this book because I envisioned it on store shelves as a real object, as something that people would actually pick up and read. Programming is intangible. I believe that there is a demand for AI-free books and I believe that there are fewer and fewer novels being produced without at least some amount of AI adulteration. Mine has none what-so-ever: as a programmer, I am well aware of the legal, ethical, and technical shortcomings of AI and have seen it destroy communities from within.
I have no experience with the book industry; Although I have been programming for 30 years, I have also been writing on my blog for close to 20. It is my desire to make a career in writing as this would mesh well with me and my family: I have a disabled wife and son whom I have been caring for whilst writing the book, although I am myself disabled with mobility issues and difficulties related to my neuro-divergency.
Please excuse the unusual way I write at times with excessive semi-colons or em-dashes. It looks like AI but it’s actually AI having stolen from my blog; I just write like that. I think the dyslexic spelling and grammar mistakes will make it obvious enough that I’m not using AI and I can prove it either-way with the daily edit history.
Though the book is currently unfinished, I am seeking a publisher that believes that it would be publishable in print should it be finished to an agreeable standard. I plan to have it finished within 9 to 12 months. I would like to write more books set in the Worldglass since this one only covers a small period in early history and there’s plenty of others to explore such as the middle-ages, the industrial revolution and Luddite movement, the age of invention &c.
Yours Sincerely,
Kroc Camen -
Cover Letter: --edit: v2
In a world drowning in AI slop I have given up programming to write a book about a concept so compelling that it has, thus far, propelled me to 80’000 words, roughly 280 pages (5”×8”), in 9 months: A world and the people within an hourglass the size of Earth. In addition to writing the book, I’ve been running a Patreon with monthly updates to the manuscript and a behind-the-scenes blog that totals another 25’723 words of content describing the daily writing and planning progress.
I started this book because I envisioned it on store shelves as a real object, as something that people would actually pick up and read. Programming is intangible. I believe that there is a demand for AI-free books and I believe that there are fewer and fewer novels being produced without at least some amount of AI adulteration. Mine has none what-so-ever: as a programmer, I am well aware of the legal, ethical, and technical shortcomings of AI and have seen it destroy communities from within.
I have no experience with the book industry; Although I have been programming for 30 years, I have also been writing on my blog for close to 20. It is my desire to make a career in writing as this would mesh well with me and my family: I have a disabled wife and son whom I have been caring for whilst writing the book, although I am myself disabled with mobility issues and difficulties related to my neuro-divergency.
Please excuse the unusual way I write at times with excessive semi-colons or em-dashes. It looks like AI but it’s actually AI having stolen from my blog; I just write like that. I think the dyslexic spelling and grammar mistakes will make it obvious enough that I’m not using AI and I can prove it either-way with the daily edit history.
Though the book is currently unfinished, I am seeking a publisher that believes that it would be publishable in print should it be finished to an agreeable standard. I plan to have it finished within 9 to 12 months. I would like to write more books set in the Worldglass since this one only covers a small period in early history and there’s plenty of others to explore such as the middle-ages, the industrial revolution and Luddite movement, the age of invention &c.
Yours Sincerely,
Kroc Camen -
Cover Letter: --edit: v2
In a world drowning in AI slop I have given up programming to write a book about a concept so compelling that it has, thus far, propelled me to 80’000 words, roughly 280 pages (5”×8”), in 9 months: A world and the people within an hourglass the size of Earth. In addition to writing the book, I’ve been running a Patreon with monthly updates to the manuscript and a behind-the-scenes blog that totals another 25’723 words of content describing the daily writing and planning progress.
I started this book because I envisioned it on store shelves as a real object, as something that people would actually pick up and read. Programming is intangible. I believe that there is a demand for AI-free books and I believe that there are fewer and fewer novels being produced without at least some amount of AI adulteration. Mine has none what-so-ever: as a programmer, I am well aware of the legal, ethical, and technical shortcomings of AI and have seen it destroy communities from within.
I have no experience with the book industry; Although I have been programming for 30 years, I have also been writing on my blog for close to 20. It is my desire to make a career in writing as this would mesh well with me and my family: I have a disabled wife and son whom I have been caring for whilst writing the book, although I am myself disabled with mobility issues and difficulties related to my neuro-divergency.
Please excuse the unusual way I write at times with excessive semi-colons or em-dashes. It looks like AI but it’s actually AI having stolen from my blog; I just write like that. I think the dyslexic spelling and grammar mistakes will make it obvious enough that I’m not using AI and I can prove it either-way with the daily edit history.
Though the book is currently unfinished, I am seeking a publisher that believes that it would be publishable in print should it be finished to an agreeable standard. I plan to have it finished within 9 to 12 months. I would like to write more books set in the Worldglass since this one only covers a small period in early history and there’s plenty of others to explore such as the middle-ages, the industrial revolution and Luddite movement, the age of invention &c.
Yours Sincerely,
Kroc Camen -
Cover Letter: --edit: v2
In a world drowning in AI slop I have given up programming to write a book about a concept so compelling that it has, thus far, propelled me to 80’000 words, roughly 280 pages (5”×8”), in 9 months: A world and the people within an hourglass the size of Earth. In addition to writing the book, I’ve been running a Patreon with monthly updates to the manuscript and a behind-the-scenes blog that totals another 25’723 words of content describing the daily writing and planning progress.
I started this book because I envisioned it on store shelves as a real object, as something that people would actually pick up and read. Programming is intangible. I believe that there is a demand for AI-free books and I believe that there are fewer and fewer novels being produced without at least some amount of AI adulteration. Mine has none what-so-ever: as a programmer, I am well aware of the legal, ethical, and technical shortcomings of AI and have seen it destroy communities from within.
I have no experience with the book industry; Although I have been programming for 30 years, I have also been writing on my blog for close to 20. It is my desire to make a career in writing as this would mesh well with me and my family: I have a disabled wife and son whom I have been caring for whilst writing the book, although I am myself disabled with mobility issues and difficulties related to my neuro-divergency.
Please excuse the unusual way I write at times with excessive semi-colons or em-dashes. It looks like AI but it’s actually AI having stolen from my blog; I just write like that. I think the dyslexic spelling and grammar mistakes will make it obvious enough that I’m not using AI and I can prove it either-way with the daily edit history.
Though the book is currently unfinished, I am seeking a publisher that believes that it would be publishable in print should it be finished to an agreeable standard. I plan to have it finished within 9 to 12 months. I would like to write more books set in the Worldglass since this one only covers a small period in early history and there’s plenty of others to explore such as the middle-ages, the industrial revolution and Luddite movement, the age of invention &c.
Yours Sincerely,
Kroc Camen -
Cover Letter: --edit: v2
In a world drowning in AI slop I have given up programming to write a book about a concept so compelling that it has, thus far, propelled me to 80’000 words, roughly 280 pages (5”×8”), in 9 months: A world and the people within an hourglass the size of Earth. In addition to writing the book, I’ve been running a Patreon with monthly updates to the manuscript and a behind-the-scenes blog that totals another 25’723 words of content describing the daily writing and planning progress.
I started this book because I envisioned it on store shelves as a real object, as something that people would actually pick up and read. Programming is intangible. I believe that there is a demand for AI-free books and I believe that there are fewer and fewer novels being produced without at least some amount of AI adulteration. Mine has none what-so-ever: as a programmer, I am well aware of the legal, ethical, and technical shortcomings of AI and have seen it destroy communities from within.
I have no experience with the book industry; Although I have been programming for 30 years, I have also been writing on my blog for close to 20. It is my desire to make a career in writing as this would mesh well with me and my family: I have a disabled wife and son whom I have been caring for whilst writing the book, although I am myself disabled with mobility issues and difficulties related to my neuro-divergency.
Please excuse the unusual way I write at times with excessive semi-colons or em-dashes. It looks like AI but it’s actually AI having stolen from my blog; I just write like that. I think the dyslexic spelling and grammar mistakes will make it obvious enough that I’m not using AI and I can prove it either-way with the daily edit history.
Though the book is currently unfinished, I am seeking a publisher that believes that it would be publishable in print should it be finished to an agreeable standard. I plan to have it finished within 9 to 12 months. I would like to write more books set in the Worldglass since this one only covers a small period in early history and there’s plenty of others to explore such as the middle-ages, the industrial revolution and Luddite movement, the age of invention &c.
Yours Sincerely,
Kroc Camen -
Would any #writersofmastodon be willing to take a look at my cover letter / synopsis and give any feedback? I've never interacted with the literary world before and I need some guidance
-- edit: I'll add the letters as replies, no need to make extra work for readers
-
Would any #writersofmastodon be willing to take a look at my cover letter / synopsis and give any feedback? I've never interacted with the literary world before and I need some guidance
-- edit: I'll add the letters as replies, no need to make extra work for readers
-
Would any #writersofmastodon be willing to take a look at my cover letter / synopsis and give any feedback? I've never interacted with the literary world before and I need some guidance
-- edit: I'll add the letters as replies, no need to make extra work for readers
-
Would any #writersofmastodon be willing to take a look at my cover letter / synopsis and give any feedback? I've never interacted with the literary world before and I need some guidance
-- edit: I'll add the letters as replies, no need to make extra work for readers
-
Would any #writersofmastodon be willing to take a look at my cover letter / synopsis and give any feedback? I've never interacted with the literary world before and I need some guidance
-- edit: I'll add the letters as replies, no need to make extra work for readers
-
If I'm going to continue Nomad: Wanderer in the #Worldglass, I need to stop #writing and find an audience / build a community.
I don't know how to find a publisher -- it's 2026, I can't just email manuscripts to publishers in blind hope.
I have the one thing they need that's going to be more valuable than gold dust by next year -- original, AI free novels. Their industry is facing a future where *nobody* is writing slop-free books any more, and book buyers DO NOT want slop. I've got what they need, I just don't know how to get it in front of them.
No matter how good the setting, the characters, or the writing is, I am gate-kept by a popularity contest; a version of he-who-shouts-loudest-wins and I'm not a shouting person, I'm a quiet contemplator.
A question to anybody reading this: What would make you read it -- what price / format / shop|website works for you? What can I do to lower the barrier until you would consider it? Heck, if you @ / DM me, I will gladly send you a full copy of the manuscript (286 pages, 80'000 words) for free. I don't need the money, I just need people to see my work but I'm not uploading it anywhere the AI can just slurp it up.
I've tried to make the book as easily readable as possible -- I even coded a web version from scratch with themes and customisable font settings, no Ai! https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
If I'm going to continue Nomad: Wanderer in the #Worldglass, I need to stop #writing and find an audience / build a community.
I don't know how to find a publisher -- it's 2026, I can't just email manuscripts to publishers in blind hope.
I have the one thing they need that's going to be more valuable than gold dust by next year -- original, AI free novels. Their industry is facing a future where *nobody* is writing slop-free books any more, and book buyers DO NOT want slop. I've got what they need, I just don't know how to get it in front of them.
No matter how good the setting, the characters, or the writing is, I am gate-kept by a popularity contest; a version of he-who-shouts-loudest-wins and I'm not a shouting person, I'm a quiet contemplator.
A question to anybody reading this: What would make you read it -- what price / format / shop|website works for you? What can I do to lower the barrier until you would consider it? Heck, if you @ / DM me, I will gladly send you a full copy of the manuscript (286 pages, 80'000 words) for free. I don't need the money, I just need people to see my work but I'm not uploading it anywhere the AI can just slurp it up.
I've tried to make the book as easily readable as possible -- I even coded a web version from scratch with themes and customisable font settings, no Ai! https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
If I'm going to continue Nomad: Wanderer in the #Worldglass, I need to stop #writing and find an audience / build a community.
I don't know how to find a publisher -- it's 2026, I can't just email manuscripts to publishers in blind hope.
I have the one thing they need that's going to be more valuable than gold dust by next year -- original, AI free novels. Their industry is facing a future where *nobody* is writing slop-free books any more, and book buyers DO NOT want slop. I've got what they need, I just don't know how to get it in front of them.
No matter how good the setting, the characters, or the writing is, I am gate-kept by a popularity contest; a version of he-who-shouts-loudest-wins and I'm not a shouting person, I'm a quiet contemplator.
A question to anybody reading this: What would make you read it -- what price / format / shop|website works for you? What can I do to lower the barrier until you would consider it? Heck, if you @ / DM me, I will gladly send you a full copy of the manuscript (286 pages, 80'000 words) for free. I don't need the money, I just need people to see my work but I'm not uploading it anywhere the AI can just slurp it up.
I've tried to make the book as easily readable as possible -- I even coded a web version from scratch with themes and customisable font settings, no Ai! https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
If I'm going to continue Nomad: Wanderer in the #Worldglass, I need to stop #writing and find an audience / build a community.
I don't know how to find a publisher -- it's 2026, I can't just email manuscripts to publishers in blind hope.
I have the one thing they need that's going to be more valuable than gold dust by next year -- original, AI free novels. Their industry is facing a future where *nobody* is writing slop-free books any more, and book buyers DO NOT want slop. I've got what they need, I just don't know how to get it in front of them.
No matter how good the setting, the characters, or the writing is, I am gate-kept by a popularity contest; a version of he-who-shouts-loudest-wins and I'm not a shouting person, I'm a quiet contemplator.
A question to anybody reading this: What would make you read it -- what price / format / shop|website works for you? What can I do to lower the barrier until you would consider it? Heck, if you @ / DM me, I will gladly send you a full copy of the manuscript (286 pages, 80'000 words) for free. I don't need the money, I just need people to see my work but I'm not uploading it anywhere the AI can just slurp it up.
I've tried to make the book as easily readable as possible -- I even coded a web version from scratch with themes and customisable font settings, no Ai! https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
If I'm going to continue Nomad: Wanderer in the #Worldglass, I need to stop #writing and find an audience / build a community.
I don't know how to find a publisher -- it's 2026, I can't just email manuscripts to publishers in blind hope.
I have the one thing they need that's going to be more valuable than gold dust by next year -- original, AI free novels. Their industry is facing a future where *nobody* is writing slop-free books any more, and book buyers DO NOT want slop. I've got what they need, I just don't know how to get it in front of them.
No matter how good the setting, the characters, or the writing is, I am gate-kept by a popularity contest; a version of he-who-shouts-loudest-wins and I'm not a shouting person, I'm a quiet contemplator.
A question to anybody reading this: What would make you read it -- what price / format / shop|website works for you? What can I do to lower the barrier until you would consider it? Heck, if you @ / DM me, I will gladly send you a full copy of the manuscript (286 pages, 80'000 words) for free. I don't need the money, I just need people to see my work but I'm not uploading it anywhere the AI can just slurp it up.
I've tried to make the book as easily readable as possible -- I even coded a web version from scratch with themes and customisable font settings, no Ai! https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
This month's manuscript release. 286 pages, 80'000 words: https://www.patreon.com/KrocCamen/posts/september-2026-170708948
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a book about an impossible journey across a world inside a 25'000 mile circumfrence hourglass. You can read a sample online: https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
This month's manuscript release. 286 pages, 80'000 words: https://www.patreon.com/KrocCamen/posts/september-2026-170708948
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a book about an impossible journey across a world inside a 25'000 mile circumfrence hourglass. You can read a sample online: https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
This month's manuscript release. 286 pages, 80'000 words: https://www.patreon.com/KrocCamen/posts/september-2026-170708948
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a book about an impossible journey across a world inside a 25'000 mile circumfrence hourglass. You can read a sample online: https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
This month's manuscript release. 286 pages, 80'000 words: https://www.patreon.com/KrocCamen/posts/september-2026-170708948
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a book about an impossible journey across a world inside a 25'000 mile circumfrence hourglass. You can read a sample online: https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
This month's manuscript release. 286 pages, 80'000 words: https://www.patreon.com/KrocCamen/posts/september-2026-170708948
Nomad: Wanderer in the Worldglass is a book about an impossible journey across a world inside a 25'000 mile circumfrence hourglass. You can read a sample online: https://camendesign.com/writing/nomad/online.html
-
Without her, there's not much point continuing the book. She was the only sounding board I had; Mastodon, Discord, Patreon et al have not panned out how I had hoped. Not a single Patreon comment; nothing in Discord. No engagement with the content of the book is happening anywhere.
Writing the book has felt like solitary confinement most of the time. I have to think about what to do with it now that I really am on my own. 80'000 words. *sigh*
-
Without her, there's not much point continuing the book. She was the only sounding board I had; Mastodon, Discord, Patreon et al have not panned out how I had hoped. Not a single Patreon comment; nothing in Discord. No engagement with the content of the book is happening anywhere.
Writing the book has felt like solitary confinement most of the time. I have to think about what to do with it now that I really am on my own. 80'000 words. *sigh*
-
Without her, there's not much point continuing the book. She was the only sounding board I had; Mastodon, Discord, Patreon et al have not panned out how I had hoped. Not a single Patreon comment; nothing in Discord. No engagement with the content of the book is happening anywhere.
Writing the book has felt like solitary confinement most of the time. I have to think about what to do with it now that I really am on my own. 80'000 words. *sigh*
-
Without her, there's not much point continuing the book. She was the only sounding board I had; Mastodon, Discord, Patreon et al have not panned out how I had hoped. Not a single Patreon comment; nothing in Discord. No engagement with the content of the book is happening anywhere.
Writing the book has felt like solitary confinement most of the time. I have to think about what to do with it now that I really am on my own. 80'000 words. *sigh*
-
Without her, there's not much point continuing the book. She was the only sounding board I had; Mastodon, Discord, Patreon et al have not panned out how I had hoped. Not a single Patreon comment; nothing in Discord. No engagement with the content of the book is happening anywhere.
Writing the book has felt like solitary confinement most of the time. I have to think about what to do with it now that I really am on my own. 80'000 words. *sigh*
-
Take a guess how much data this computer collects about my #writing habits.
-
Take a guess how much data this computer collects about my #writing habits.
-
Take a guess how much data this computer collects about my #writing habits.
-
Take a guess how much data this computer collects about my #writing habits.
-
Take a guess how much data this computer collects about my #writing habits.
-
RE: https://oldbytes.space/@Kroc/117155577768783080
If all this shit is stressing you out, like it is me, consider taking your eyes off social for a while and reading my 100% AI-free book about a world inside an hourglass:
-
RE: https://oldbytes.space/@Kroc/117155577768783080
If all this shit is stressing you out, like it is me, consider taking your eyes off social for a while and reading my 100% AI-free book about a world inside an hourglass:
-
RE: https://oldbytes.space/@Kroc/117155577768783080
If all this shit is stressing you out, like it is me, consider taking your eyes off social for a while and reading my 100% AI-free book about a world inside an hourglass:
-
RE: https://oldbytes.space/@Kroc/117155577768783080
If all this shit is stressing you out, like it is me, consider taking your eyes off social for a while and reading my 100% AI-free book about a world inside an hourglass:
-
RE: https://oldbytes.space/@Kroc/117155577768783080
If all this shit is stressing you out, like it is me, consider taking your eyes off social for a while and reading my 100% AI-free book about a world inside an hourglass:
-
#WordWeavers SEP 17: By the end of your story, how many injuries has your MC had?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Hot air blew against our faces from the back of the cave-like area we were in and orange light danced over the rock ceiling. Then the muffled screams began. I looked about trying to understand what was going on and there was much murmuring as everybody else was doing the same. Were they killing off the worthless ones? What barbaric insanity was this!? Word fed down the crowd, they were branding us. Up until now I had been trying to remain calm and make sense of everything, if I was going to escape I had to remember where everything was and plan carefully but now I was scared and panicking. If waiting outside in the midday sun was torture, this was terror; the screams emanating from up front weren't helping. Another batch of slaves began arriving from the gates behind asking what was going on and so the fear spread through the ranks quickly.
As much as I didn't want to move forward the thinning crowd ahead was the only direction I could go, over their shoulders I could see several open fire pits with hot irons heating in the flames. Men wearing leather tunics to protect them from the heat were feeding the fires with fuel, others were pumping bellows, and at each fire pit sat on a stool was the iron master doing the branding. He was juggling several hot irons at a time in the fire to keep things moving which only meant fresh screams came every 10 seconds or so. There were many guards, all with metal swords in the belt and armed with a club, tasked with keeping the flow going. People were grabbed from the front of the crowd and pulled over to the iron master and made to sit down on a stool. A rag wrapped around a stick was shoved into their mouth to bite down on and the guard held their arm in place whilst the iron master selected a red hot iron from the fire. Anybody who resisted got beaten and branded without the bit between the teeth. Those screams rang through the head like a bell. Another worker was ready with a cloth which he dunked in a bucket of water, slapped it on the fresh burn and tied a tourniquet before shoving the victim to the back of the cave past the fire pits.
The wall of flesh behind pushed me closer and closer to inevitability. My heart was pounding, my head light from my panicked breathing. I was trying over and over again to think of a way out of this, some way to take control of the situation but my mind was spinning in circles. I didn't even see the hand grab my arm and yank me with such force my feet left the floor. The rest was a blur of senses, "blue" the guard uttered to the iron master as I was thrown to the chair, my legs giving way easily. The searing heat of the fire. The smell of burning flesh in the air. "Head" came the voice of the iron master and the guard clamped his beastly hands on top of my head and under my chin. Do I not get the bit!? The iron master's hands passed over the hot irons and instead selected a long fine needle. Were they going to poke my eyes out because they didn't want anybody reading their secret numbers!? I was done with caution, I'd rather die fighting than have my eyes poked out. I tried struggling but with my arms still bound behind my back, my head in the guard's vice-like grip and my legs as weak as aspic, I was utterly powerless. As the iron master raised the red hot needle I grit my teeth, held my breath and scrunched my eyes shut as tightly as I possibly could, I was going to fight with everything I had left. A hand grabbed my ear and pulled, there was a sharp pain in the side of my head, some rustling, a crunching sound, and a sudden disorientating rush as I was lifted off the stool and pushed away.
I stumbled and flopped forward, my whole body shaking, my jaw having been clenched so hard it ached. I was caught by a porter in a blue tunic but before I could even stand on my own I looked back. I couldn't tell you what I was expecting to see, my mind just assumed that I'd see myself, to witness what I had just been through because I didn't see it. I didn't understand what had happened --- I wasn't blind --- but I did get my answer because the next person was getting the same treatment. The iron master took a short leather lace from a box at his feet and with that hand gripped the guy's ear whilst picking up the hot needle with the other hand. Ear-piercings! That was what that pain was and the strange feeling like something is stuck to the side of my head. The iron master pushed the lace through the ear-lobe with the hot needle and then wrapped the two ends together in a leather tag he had palmed all whilst putting down the hot needle and picking up some kind of pliers in the other hand, crimping a metal stud through the leather tag to seal it.
-
#WordWeavers SEP 17: By the end of your story, how many injuries has your MC had?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Hot air blew against our faces from the back of the cave-like area we were in and orange light danced over the rock ceiling. Then the muffled screams began. I looked about trying to understand what was going on and there was much murmuring as everybody else was doing the same. Were they killing off the worthless ones? What barbaric insanity was this!? Word fed down the crowd, they were branding us. Up until now I had been trying to remain calm and make sense of everything, if I was going to escape I had to remember where everything was and plan carefully but now I was scared and panicking. If waiting outside in the midday sun was torture, this was terror; the screams emanating from up front weren't helping. Another batch of slaves began arriving from the gates behind asking what was going on and so the fear spread through the ranks quickly.
As much as I didn't want to move forward the thinning crowd ahead was the only direction I could go, over their shoulders I could see several open fire pits with hot irons heating in the flames. Men wearing leather tunics to protect them from the heat were feeding the fires with fuel, others were pumping bellows, and at each fire pit sat on a stool was the iron master doing the branding. He was juggling several hot irons at a time in the fire to keep things moving which only meant fresh screams came every 10 seconds or so. There were many guards, all with metal swords in the belt and armed with a club, tasked with keeping the flow going. People were grabbed from the front of the crowd and pulled over to the iron master and made to sit down on a stool. A rag wrapped around a stick was shoved into their mouth to bite down on and the guard held their arm in place whilst the iron master selected a red hot iron from the fire. Anybody who resisted got beaten and branded without the bit between the teeth. Those screams rang through the head like a bell. Another worker was ready with a cloth which he dunked in a bucket of water, slapped it on the fresh burn and tied a tourniquet before shoving the victim to the back of the cave past the fire pits.
The wall of flesh behind pushed me closer and closer to inevitability. My heart was pounding, my head light from my panicked breathing. I was trying over and over again to think of a way out of this, some way to take control of the situation but my mind was spinning in circles. I didn't even see the hand grab my arm and yank me with such force my feet left the floor. The rest was a blur of senses, "blue" the guard uttered to the iron master as I was thrown to the chair, my legs giving way easily. The searing heat of the fire. The smell of burning flesh in the air. "Head" came the voice of the iron master and the guard clamped his beastly hands on top of my head and under my chin. Do I not get the bit!? The iron master's hands passed over the hot irons and instead selected a long fine needle. Were they going to poke my eyes out because they didn't want anybody reading their secret numbers!? I was done with caution, I'd rather die fighting than have my eyes poked out. I tried struggling but with my arms still bound behind my back, my head in the guard's vice-like grip and my legs as weak as aspic, I was utterly powerless. As the iron master raised the red hot needle I grit my teeth, held my breath and scrunched my eyes shut as tightly as I possibly could, I was going to fight with everything I had left. A hand grabbed my ear and pulled, there was a sharp pain in the side of my head, some rustling, a crunching sound, and a sudden disorientating rush as I was lifted off the stool and pushed away.
I stumbled and flopped forward, my whole body shaking, my jaw having been clenched so hard it ached. I was caught by a porter in a blue tunic but before I could even stand on my own I looked back. I couldn't tell you what I was expecting to see, my mind just assumed that I'd see myself, to witness what I had just been through because I didn't see it. I didn't understand what had happened --- I wasn't blind --- but I did get my answer because the next person was getting the same treatment. The iron master took a short leather lace from a box at his feet and with that hand gripped the guy's ear whilst picking up the hot needle with the other hand. Ear-piercings! That was what that pain was and the strange feeling like something is stuck to the side of my head. The iron master pushed the lace through the ear-lobe with the hot needle and then wrapped the two ends together in a leather tag he had palmed all whilst putting down the hot needle and picking up some kind of pliers in the other hand, crimping a metal stud through the leather tag to seal it.
-
#WordWeavers SEP 17: By the end of your story, how many injuries has your MC had?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Hot air blew against our faces from the back of the cave-like area we were in and orange light danced over the rock ceiling. Then the muffled screams began. I looked about trying to understand what was going on and there was much murmuring as everybody else was doing the same. Were they killing off the worthless ones? What barbaric insanity was this!? Word fed down the crowd, they were branding us. Up until now I had been trying to remain calm and make sense of everything, if I was going to escape I had to remember where everything was and plan carefully but now I was scared and panicking. If waiting outside in the midday sun was torture, this was terror; the screams emanating from up front weren't helping. Another batch of slaves began arriving from the gates behind asking what was going on and so the fear spread through the ranks quickly.
As much as I didn't want to move forward the thinning crowd ahead was the only direction I could go, over their shoulders I could see several open fire pits with hot irons heating in the flames. Men wearing leather tunics to protect them from the heat were feeding the fires with fuel, others were pumping bellows, and at each fire pit sat on a stool was the iron master doing the branding. He was juggling several hot irons at a time in the fire to keep things moving which only meant fresh screams came every 10 seconds or so. There were many guards, all with metal swords in the belt and armed with a club, tasked with keeping the flow going. People were grabbed from the front of the crowd and pulled over to the iron master and made to sit down on a stool. A rag wrapped around a stick was shoved into their mouth to bite down on and the guard held their arm in place whilst the iron master selected a red hot iron from the fire. Anybody who resisted got beaten and branded without the bit between the teeth. Those screams rang through the head like a bell. Another worker was ready with a cloth which he dunked in a bucket of water, slapped it on the fresh burn and tied a tourniquet before shoving the victim to the back of the cave past the fire pits.
The wall of flesh behind pushed me closer and closer to inevitability. My heart was pounding, my head light from my panicked breathing. I was trying over and over again to think of a way out of this, some way to take control of the situation but my mind was spinning in circles. I didn't even see the hand grab my arm and yank me with such force my feet left the floor. The rest was a blur of senses, "blue" the guard uttered to the iron master as I was thrown to the chair, my legs giving way easily. The searing heat of the fire. The smell of burning flesh in the air. "Head" came the voice of the iron master and the guard clamped his beastly hands on top of my head and under my chin. Do I not get the bit!? The iron master's hands passed over the hot irons and instead selected a long fine needle. Were they going to poke my eyes out because they didn't want anybody reading their secret numbers!? I was done with caution, I'd rather die fighting than have my eyes poked out. I tried struggling but with my arms still bound behind my back, my head in the guard's vice-like grip and my legs as weak as aspic, I was utterly powerless. As the iron master raised the red hot needle I grit my teeth, held my breath and scrunched my eyes shut as tightly as I possibly could, I was going to fight with everything I had left. A hand grabbed my ear and pulled, there was a sharp pain in the side of my head, some rustling, a crunching sound, and a sudden disorientating rush as I was lifted off the stool and pushed away.
I stumbled and flopped forward, my whole body shaking, my jaw having been clenched so hard it ached. I was caught by a porter in a blue tunic but before I could even stand on my own I looked back. I couldn't tell you what I was expecting to see, my mind just assumed that I'd see myself, to witness what I had just been through because I didn't see it. I didn't understand what had happened --- I wasn't blind --- but I did get my answer because the next person was getting the same treatment. The iron master took a short leather lace from a box at his feet and with that hand gripped the guy's ear whilst picking up the hot needle with the other hand. Ear-piercings! That was what that pain was and the strange feeling like something is stuck to the side of my head. The iron master pushed the lace through the ear-lobe with the hot needle and then wrapped the two ends together in a leather tag he had palmed all whilst putting down the hot needle and picking up some kind of pliers in the other hand, crimping a metal stud through the leather tag to seal it.
-
#WordWeavers SEP 17: By the end of your story, how many injuries has your MC had?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Hot air blew against our faces from the back of the cave-like area we were in and orange light danced over the rock ceiling. Then the muffled screams began. I looked about trying to understand what was going on and there was much murmuring as everybody else was doing the same. Were they killing off the worthless ones? What barbaric insanity was this!? Word fed down the crowd, they were branding us. Up until now I had been trying to remain calm and make sense of everything, if I was going to escape I had to remember where everything was and plan carefully but now I was scared and panicking. If waiting outside in the midday sun was torture, this was terror; the screams emanating from up front weren't helping. Another batch of slaves began arriving from the gates behind asking what was going on and so the fear spread through the ranks quickly.
As much as I didn't want to move forward the thinning crowd ahead was the only direction I could go, over their shoulders I could see several open fire pits with hot irons heating in the flames. Men wearing leather tunics to protect them from the heat were feeding the fires with fuel, others were pumping bellows, and at each fire pit sat on a stool was the iron master doing the branding. He was juggling several hot irons at a time in the fire to keep things moving which only meant fresh screams came every 10 seconds or so. There were many guards, all with metal swords in the belt and armed with a club, tasked with keeping the flow going. People were grabbed from the front of the crowd and pulled over to the iron master and made to sit down on a stool. A rag wrapped around a stick was shoved into their mouth to bite down on and the guard held their arm in place whilst the iron master selected a red hot iron from the fire. Anybody who resisted got beaten and branded without the bit between the teeth. Those screams rang through the head like a bell. Another worker was ready with a cloth which he dunked in a bucket of water, slapped it on the fresh burn and tied a tourniquet before shoving the victim to the back of the cave past the fire pits.
The wall of flesh behind pushed me closer and closer to inevitability. My heart was pounding, my head light from my panicked breathing. I was trying over and over again to think of a way out of this, some way to take control of the situation but my mind was spinning in circles. I didn't even see the hand grab my arm and yank me with such force my feet left the floor. The rest was a blur of senses, "blue" the guard uttered to the iron master as I was thrown to the chair, my legs giving way easily. The searing heat of the fire. The smell of burning flesh in the air. "Head" came the voice of the iron master and the guard clamped his beastly hands on top of my head and under my chin. Do I not get the bit!? The iron master's hands passed over the hot irons and instead selected a long fine needle. Were they going to poke my eyes out because they didn't want anybody reading their secret numbers!? I was done with caution, I'd rather die fighting than have my eyes poked out. I tried struggling but with my arms still bound behind my back, my head in the guard's vice-like grip and my legs as weak as aspic, I was utterly powerless. As the iron master raised the red hot needle I grit my teeth, held my breath and scrunched my eyes shut as tightly as I possibly could, I was going to fight with everything I had left. A hand grabbed my ear and pulled, there was a sharp pain in the side of my head, some rustling, a crunching sound, and a sudden disorientating rush as I was lifted off the stool and pushed away.
I stumbled and flopped forward, my whole body shaking, my jaw having been clenched so hard it ached. I was caught by a porter in a blue tunic but before I could even stand on my own I looked back. I couldn't tell you what I was expecting to see, my mind just assumed that I'd see myself, to witness what I had just been through because I didn't see it. I didn't understand what had happened --- I wasn't blind --- but I did get my answer because the next person was getting the same treatment. The iron master took a short leather lace from a box at his feet and with that hand gripped the guy's ear whilst picking up the hot needle with the other hand. Ear-piercings! That was what that pain was and the strange feeling like something is stuck to the side of my head. The iron master pushed the lace through the ear-lobe with the hot needle and then wrapped the two ends together in a leather tag he had palmed all whilst putting down the hot needle and picking up some kind of pliers in the other hand, crimping a metal stud through the leather tag to seal it.
-
#WordWeavers SEP 17: By the end of your story, how many injuries has your MC had?
⸻ ⧫ ⸻
Hot air blew against our faces from the back of the cave-like area we were in and orange light danced over the rock ceiling. Then the muffled screams began. I looked about trying to understand what was going on and there was much murmuring as everybody else was doing the same. Were they killing off the worthless ones? What barbaric insanity was this!? Word fed down the crowd, they were branding us. Up until now I had been trying to remain calm and make sense of everything, if I was going to escape I had to remember where everything was and plan carefully but now I was scared and panicking. If waiting outside in the midday sun was torture, this was terror; the screams emanating from up front weren't helping. Another batch of slaves began arriving from the gates behind asking what was going on and so the fear spread through the ranks quickly.
As much as I didn't want to move forward the thinning crowd ahead was the only direction I could go, over their shoulders I could see several open fire pits with hot irons heating in the flames. Men wearing leather tunics to protect them from the heat were feeding the fires with fuel, others were pumping bellows, and at each fire pit sat on a stool was the iron master doing the branding. He was juggling several hot irons at a time in the fire to keep things moving which only meant fresh screams came every 10 seconds or so. There were many guards, all with metal swords in the belt and armed with a club, tasked with keeping the flow going. People were grabbed from the front of the crowd and pulled over to the iron master and made to sit down on a stool. A rag wrapped around a stick was shoved into their mouth to bite down on and the guard held their arm in place whilst the iron master selected a red hot iron from the fire. Anybody who resisted got beaten and branded without the bit between the teeth. Those screams rang through the head like a bell. Another worker was ready with a cloth which he dunked in a bucket of water, slapped it on the fresh burn and tied a tourniquet before shoving the victim to the back of the cave past the fire pits.
The wall of flesh behind pushed me closer and closer to inevitability. My heart was pounding, my head light from my panicked breathing. I was trying over and over again to think of a way out of this, some way to take control of the situation but my mind was spinning in circles. I didn't even see the hand grab my arm and yank me with such force my feet left the floor. The rest was a blur of senses, "blue" the guard uttered to the iron master as I was thrown to the chair, my legs giving way easily. The searing heat of the fire. The smell of burning flesh in the air. "Head" came the voice of the iron master and the guard clamped his beastly hands on top of my head and under my chin. Do I not get the bit!? The iron master's hands passed over the hot irons and instead selected a long fine needle. Were they going to poke my eyes out because they didn't want anybody reading their secret numbers!? I was done with caution, I'd rather die fighting than have my eyes poked out. I tried struggling but with my arms still bound behind my back, my head in the guard's vice-like grip and my legs as weak as aspic, I was utterly powerless. As the iron master raised the red hot needle I grit my teeth, held my breath and scrunched my eyes shut as tightly as I possibly could, I was going to fight with everything I had left. A hand grabbed my ear and pulled, there was a sharp pain in the side of my head, some rustling, a crunching sound, and a sudden disorientating rush as I was lifted off the stool and pushed away.
I stumbled and flopped forward, my whole body shaking, my jaw having been clenched so hard it ached. I was caught by a porter in a blue tunic but before I could even stand on my own I looked back. I couldn't tell you what I was expecting to see, my mind just assumed that I'd see myself, to witness what I had just been through because I didn't see it. I didn't understand what had happened --- I wasn't blind --- but I did get my answer because the next person was getting the same treatment. The iron master took a short leather lace from a box at his feet and with that hand gripped the guy's ear whilst picking up the hot needle with the other hand. Ear-piercings! That was what that pain was and the strange feeling like something is stuck to the side of my head. The iron master pushed the lace through the ear-lobe with the hot needle and then wrapped the two ends together in a leather tag he had palmed all whilst putting down the hot needle and picking up some kind of pliers in the other hand, crimping a metal stud through the leather tag to seal it.
-
The cup lady:
> The sisters ducked under the market stall, holding their hats down to avoid knocking them off their heads, but seeing there was no good shade to rest in -- it was around middsun now so the walls around us had none -- they decided to sit under the table and catch their breath, fanning themselves with their hats.
>
> "Oh, here comes the cup lady!" one of them said from somewhere beneath me. "As regular as the sunrise;" the other sister added, "you could navigate by her."
>
> I looked back and forth wondering who they were referring to when, sure enough, the cup lady shuffled out of the passers-by. It was an old woman with a hunchback so severe it looked as if her head protruded from her chest. She wore several bonnets tied around her neck and the hunch was made all the more pronounced by the many layers of dark and dirty rags hanging from her. Anywhere a skirt or petticoat had fallen apart, another had simply been thrown over the top. She shuffled along, the mass of skirts swaying back and forth, carrying with her a cup of water and she tutted and muttered to herself as she went.
>
> Shuffling up to the remaining eggs, I looked down at her expecting her to say how many she wanted or show me what pellets she had and ask what she could get for them, but no, she began fingering over the eggs, tilting them back and forth. She'd pick out an egg and drop it into the cup and with her one good eye, hold the cup up to her face and peer at the egg from a thumb away. She'd watch it bob about in the water and mutter to herself in a series of tuts and grumbles and then extract the egg and put it back before moving on to another one. There was no order to which egg she would select next, if she were trying to test them all. Whatever she was looking for, it was beyond my recognition. After several minutes of this exacting trial by water for the eggs, she was somehow satisfied with the one particular egg and looking up to me with her squinty eye, raised a shaky arm and opened her hand to reveal a small lead pellet before uttering some incomprehensible words that went straight through me.
>
> "Uh..." I said not sure what to make of the situation and how I should proceed. I couldn't even guess at what she had said to me and I wondered how I was going to explain to her that she'd need more than that.
>
> "Just take it and say thank you" came a voice from under the table, "She's here every week, only ever wants one specific egg; we've tried just giving it to her free but she insists on us taking something for it."
>
> "Oh," I said, rather perplexed, took the small pellet and said thank you to the cup lady. She just turned, tutting and muttering as she shuffled away.Oh man, the cup lady scene. Completely pointless, no functional purpose in the story what-so-ever, and yet one of the very first things I envisioned when I imagined the market stall. I have been writing for months just to be able to get to this point so I could reveal her to you. If this #book ever gets published in print, the cup lady will probably be first to be cut.
Find out more about the #worldglass by checking out https://camendesign.com/nomad
-
The cup lady:
> The sisters ducked under the market stall, holding their hats down to avoid knocking them off their heads, but seeing there was no good shade to rest in -- it was around middsun now so the walls around us had none -- they decided to sit under the table and catch their breath, fanning themselves with their hats.
>
> "Oh, here comes the cup lady!" one of them said from somewhere beneath me. "As regular as the sunrise;" the other sister added, "you could navigate by her."
>
> I looked back and forth wondering who they were referring to when, sure enough, the cup lady shuffled out of the passers-by. It was an old woman with a hunchback so severe it looked as if her head protruded from her chest. She wore several bonnets tied around her neck and the hunch was made all the more pronounced by the many layers of dark and dirty rags hanging from her. Anywhere a skirt or petticoat had fallen apart, another had simply been thrown over the top. She shuffled along, the mass of skirts swaying back and forth, carrying with her a cup of water and she tutted and muttered to herself as she went.
>
> Shuffling up to the remaining eggs, I looked down at her expecting her to say how many she wanted or show me what pellets she had and ask what she could get for them, but no, she began fingering over the eggs, tilting them back and forth. She'd pick out an egg and drop it into the cup and with her one good eye, hold the cup up to her face and peer at the egg from a thumb away. She'd watch it bob about in the water and mutter to herself in a series of tuts and grumbles and then extract the egg and put it back before moving on to another one. There was no order to which egg she would select next, if she were trying to test them all. Whatever she was looking for, it was beyond my recognition. After several minutes of this exacting trial by water for the eggs, she was somehow satisfied with the one particular egg and looking up to me with her squinty eye, raised a shaky arm and opened her hand to reveal a small lead pellet before uttering some incomprehensible words that went straight through me.
>
> "Uh..." I said not sure what to make of the situation and how I should proceed. I couldn't even guess at what she had said to me and I wondered how I was going to explain to her that she'd need more than that.
>
> "Just take it and say thank you" came a voice from under the table, "She's here every week, only ever wants one specific egg; we've tried just giving it to her free but she insists on us taking something for it."
>
> "Oh," I said, rather perplexed, took the small pellet and said thank you to the cup lady. She just turned, tutting and muttering as she shuffled away.Oh man, the cup lady scene. Completely pointless, no functional purpose in the story what-so-ever, and yet one of the very first things I envisioned when I imagined the market stall. I have been writing for months just to be able to get to this point so I could reveal her to you. If this #book ever gets published in print, the cup lady will probably be first to be cut.
Find out more about the #worldglass by checking out https://camendesign.com/nomad
-
The cup lady:
> The sisters ducked under the market stall, holding their hats down to avoid knocking them off their heads, but seeing there was no good shade to rest in -- it was around middsun now so the walls around us had none -- they decided to sit under the table and catch their breath, fanning themselves with their hats.
>
> "Oh, here comes the cup lady!" one of them said from somewhere beneath me. "As regular as the sunrise;" the other sister added, "you could navigate by her."
>
> I looked back and forth wondering who they were referring to when, sure enough, the cup lady shuffled out of the passers-by. It was an old woman with a hunchback so severe it looked as if her head protruded from her chest. She wore several bonnets tied around her neck and the hunch was made all the more pronounced by the many layers of dark and dirty rags hanging from her. Anywhere a skirt or petticoat had fallen apart, another had simply been thrown over the top. She shuffled along, the mass of skirts swaying back and forth, carrying with her a cup of water and she tutted and muttered to herself as she went.
>
> Shuffling up to the remaining eggs, I looked down at her expecting her to say how many she wanted or show me what pellets she had and ask what she could get for them, but no, she began fingering over the eggs, tilting them back and forth. She'd pick out an egg and drop it into the cup and with her one good eye, hold the cup up to her face and peer at the egg from a thumb away. She'd watch it bob about in the water and mutter to herself in a series of tuts and grumbles and then extract the egg and put it back before moving on to another one. There was no order to which egg she would select next, if she were trying to test them all. Whatever she was looking for, it was beyond my recognition. After several minutes of this exacting trial by water for the eggs, she was somehow satisfied with the one particular egg and looking up to me with her squinty eye, raised a shaky arm and opened her hand to reveal a small lead pellet before uttering some incomprehensible words that went straight through me.
>
> "Uh..." I said not sure what to make of the situation and how I should proceed. I couldn't even guess at what she had said to me and I wondered how I was going to explain to her that she'd need more than that.
>
> "Just take it and say thank you" came a voice from under the table, "She's here every week, only ever wants one specific egg; we've tried just giving it to her free but she insists on us taking something for it."
>
> "Oh," I said, rather perplexed, took the small pellet and said thank you to the cup lady. She just turned, tutting and muttering as she shuffled away.Oh man, the cup lady scene. Completely pointless, no functional purpose in the story what-so-ever, and yet one of the very first things I envisioned when I imagined the market stall. I have been writing for months just to be able to get to this point so I could reveal her to you. If this #book ever gets published in print, the cup lady will probably be first to be cut.
Find out more about the #worldglass by checking out https://camendesign.com/nomad
-
The cup lady:
> The sisters ducked under the market stall, holding their hats down to avoid knocking them off their heads, but seeing there was no good shade to rest in -- it was around middsun now so the walls around us had none -- they decided to sit under the table and catch their breath, fanning themselves with their hats.
>
> "Oh, here comes the cup lady!" one of them said from somewhere beneath me. "As regular as the sunrise;" the other sister added, "you could navigate by her."
>
> I looked back and forth wondering who they were referring to when, sure enough, the cup lady shuffled out of the passers-by. It was an old woman with a hunchback so severe it looked as if her head protruded from her chest. She wore several bonnets tied around her neck and the hunch was made all the more pronounced by the many layers of dark and dirty rags hanging from her. Anywhere a skirt or petticoat had fallen apart, another had simply been thrown over the top. She shuffled along, the mass of skirts swaying back and forth, carrying with her a cup of water and she tutted and muttered to herself as she went.
>
> Shuffling up to the remaining eggs, I looked down at her expecting her to say how many she wanted or show me what pellets she had and ask what she could get for them, but no, she began fingering over the eggs, tilting them back and forth. She'd pick out an egg and drop it into the cup and with her one good eye, hold the cup up to her face and peer at the egg from a thumb away. She'd watch it bob about in the water and mutter to herself in a series of tuts and grumbles and then extract the egg and put it back before moving on to another one. There was no order to which egg she would select next, if she were trying to test them all. Whatever she was looking for, it was beyond my recognition. After several minutes of this exacting trial by water for the eggs, she was somehow satisfied with the one particular egg and looking up to me with her squinty eye, raised a shaky arm and opened her hand to reveal a small lead pellet before uttering some incomprehensible words that went straight through me.
>
> "Uh..." I said not sure what to make of the situation and how I should proceed. I couldn't even guess at what she had said to me and I wondered how I was going to explain to her that she'd need more than that.
>
> "Just take it and say thank you" came a voice from under the table, "She's here every week, only ever wants one specific egg; we've tried just giving it to her free but she insists on us taking something for it."
>
> "Oh," I said, rather perplexed, took the small pellet and said thank you to the cup lady. She just turned, tutting and muttering as she shuffled away.Oh man, the cup lady scene. Completely pointless, no functional purpose in the story what-so-ever, and yet one of the very first things I envisioned when I imagined the market stall. I have been writing for months just to be able to get to this point so I could reveal her to you. If this #book ever gets published in print, the cup lady will probably be first to be cut.
Find out more about the #worldglass by checking out https://camendesign.com/nomad
-
The cup lady:
> The sisters ducked under the market stall, holding their hats down to avoid knocking them off their heads, but seeing there was no good shade to rest in -- it was around middsun now so the walls around us had none -- they decided to sit under the table and catch their breath, fanning themselves with their hats.
>
> "Oh, here comes the cup lady!" one of them said from somewhere beneath me. "As regular as the sunrise;" the other sister added, "you could navigate by her."
>
> I looked back and forth wondering who they were referring to when, sure enough, the cup lady shuffled out of the passers-by. It was an old woman with a hunchback so severe it looked as if her head protruded from her chest. She wore several bonnets tied around her neck and the hunch was made all the more pronounced by the many layers of dark and dirty rags hanging from her. Anywhere a skirt or petticoat had fallen apart, another had simply been thrown over the top. She shuffled along, the mass of skirts swaying back and forth, carrying with her a cup of water and she tutted and muttered to herself as she went.
>
> Shuffling up to the remaining eggs, I looked down at her expecting her to say how many she wanted or show me what pellets she had and ask what she could get for them, but no, she began fingering over the eggs, tilting them back and forth. She'd pick out an egg and drop it into the cup and with her one good eye, hold the cup up to her face and peer at the egg from a thumb away. She'd watch it bob about in the water and mutter to herself in a series of tuts and grumbles and then extract the egg and put it back before moving on to another one. There was no order to which egg she would select next, if she were trying to test them all. Whatever she was looking for, it was beyond my recognition. After several minutes of this exacting trial by water for the eggs, she was somehow satisfied with the one particular egg and looking up to me with her squinty eye, raised a shaky arm and opened her hand to reveal a small lead pellet before uttering some incomprehensible words that went straight through me.
>
> "Uh..." I said not sure what to make of the situation and how I should proceed. I couldn't even guess at what she had said to me and I wondered how I was going to explain to her that she'd need more than that.
>
> "Just take it and say thank you" came a voice from under the table, "She's here every week, only ever wants one specific egg; we've tried just giving it to her free but she insists on us taking something for it."
>
> "Oh," I said, rather perplexed, took the small pellet and said thank you to the cup lady. She just turned, tutting and muttering as she shuffled away.Oh man, the cup lady scene. Completely pointless, no functional purpose in the story what-so-ever, and yet one of the very first things I envisioned when I imagined the market stall. I have been writing for months just to be able to get to this point so I could reveal her to you. If this #book ever gets published in print, the cup lady will probably be first to be cut.
Find out more about the #worldglass by checking out https://camendesign.com/nomad
-
I am reconsidering releasing the source code to this, at least as a git repo.
I'd have to create a subproject in the git repo and then commit the changes separately from the repo the book is in. That's more fragile and tedious work that's taking away from writing the book content, and for what? The Ai to just ingest it all against my will?
I spent years making everything I did open and accessible and it never succeed in building a community. I want my time to be spent on better things. Those with the actual knowledge of it can learn from my #HTML / #CSS by reading it. The CSS for this thing is very advanced (ever even heard of `cq` units?) and is explained well in the comments.
-
I am reconsidering releasing the source code to this, at least as a git repo.
I'd have to create a subproject in the git repo and then commit the changes separately from the repo the book is in. That's more fragile and tedious work that's taking away from writing the book content, and for what? The Ai to just ingest it all against my will?
I spent years making everything I did open and accessible and it never succeed in building a community. I want my time to be spent on better things. Those with the actual knowledge of it can learn from my #HTML / #CSS by reading it. The CSS for this thing is very advanced (ever even heard of `cq` units?) and is explained well in the comments.
-
I am reconsidering releasing the source code to this, at least as a git repo.
I'd have to create a subproject in the git repo and then commit the changes separately from the repo the book is in. That's more fragile and tedious work that's taking away from writing the book content, and for what? The Ai to just ingest it all against my will?
I spent years making everything I did open and accessible and it never succeed in building a community. I want my time to be spent on better things. Those with the actual knowledge of it can learn from my #HTML / #CSS by reading it. The CSS for this thing is very advanced (ever even heard of `cq` units?) and is explained well in the comments.
-
I am reconsidering releasing the source code to this, at least as a git repo.
I'd have to create a subproject in the git repo and then commit the changes separately from the repo the book is in. That's more fragile and tedious work that's taking away from writing the book content, and for what? The Ai to just ingest it all against my will?
I spent years making everything I did open and accessible and it never succeed in building a community. I want my time to be spent on better things. Those with the actual knowledge of it can learn from my #HTML / #CSS by reading it. The CSS for this thing is very advanced (ever even heard of `cq` units?) and is explained well in the comments.
-
I am reconsidering releasing the source code to this, at least as a git repo.
I'd have to create a subproject in the git repo and then commit the changes separately from the repo the book is in. That's more fragile and tedious work that's taking away from writing the book content, and for what? The Ai to just ingest it all against my will?
I spent years making everything I did open and accessible and it never succeed in building a community. I want my time to be spent on better things. Those with the actual knowledge of it can learn from my #HTML / #CSS by reading it. The CSS for this thing is very advanced (ever even heard of `cq` units?) and is explained well in the comments.