This image is here simply because I miss Cassandra Cain. My heaviest comic collecting days were back when Barbara Gordon was Oracle and ran the Birds of Prey. Cass was Batgirl, Tim Drake was Robin and Steph was Spoiler.
And Lady Blackhawk could drink you under the table while Sasha from Checkmate kept an eye on you.
I’m writing this as I wind down my work day before taking time off for Balticon. I’m giving myself time – extended time – to write before my lady and I dive back into the masses of fen at the Hunt Valley.
At an office presentation, I was congratulated on my upcoming tenth year with the company. Ten years. This would lead to an Henri-esque level of ennui and contemplations of mortality, but then another email funnels into the in-box asking for help.
When I first joined the company, back when Cass was Batgirl, it was so I could give myself more time to write. Instead, I found myself as the backbone and champion for my particular product line. I gave my words to it, not myself. And now I find it hard to take those words back. I now scrape some time writing first thing in the morning. Half an hour before work kicks in, if things weren’t too bad overnight. Sleep has become a precious thing. I drift away on the train instead of reading.
“Why don’t you give yourself more time?”
Part of me is still fighting to see this as worthwhile. It’s not an easy thing. When you’ve had ‘because there is no money in it’ drilled into your brain as the prime reason for not studying art, or playing music, or trying to write professionally for nearly three decades, it’s hard to deprogram.
This is why I love my book club, and places like Balticon, and my friends. They help me fight the programming.
I’ll know we’ve truly created a machine intelligence when it says to us, “Listen, I don’t want to predict commodities prices anymore. I’d like to write poetry for a living…”
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