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Patrick O'Duffy
Patrick O'Duffy's posts

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You can have all the planning and organisation and good intentions in the world, yet still get half/a quarter/10% of the way into a project and realise that it's not the right thing for you.

That's what's happened with me and The Obituarist 3. But rather than abandoning it, I managed to work out what I actually WANTED to write, and now I'm doing that.

Well, not 'now' in the sense of 'this week', 'cos I had day job and social engagements and just found out Lucha Underground is on Netflix - but in the broader scheme of things, I'm into it, I'm solving the puzzles and I'm PUMPED.

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I have a desk calendar-planner, because I'm busy and I need to keep track of things. On February's, I wrote 'WRITE THE FUCKING BOOK' in the general to-do section, and underlined it three times.

SPOILER: I did not, in fact, write the fucking book.

But I did write a kinda whiny, self-indulgent end-of-month blog post where I castigate myself for procrastinating. So, um, that's something.

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Short stories set in the 13th Age by +Rob Heinsoo, +Gareth Ryder-Hanrahan, +Patrick O'Duffy, and me. They're sequels to +Greg Stolze's Forgotten Monk, and my piece has a religious angle. It’s the third game-fiction short story I've had published, and it’s the best. The other two were terrible.

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We folks who enjoy genre fiction - we all like intricate and engaging world building, right? Even ostensibly 'real world' stories like romance and crime still need a setting around them - and when you get into SF and fantasy, then welooooovvvveeee all the detail that makes a world fascinating and unique. That stuff's like crack.

And like crack, it rots your teeth and you have to wear filter masks while you make it.

Yes, it's me, Inappropriate Metaphor Guy, and I'm here to talk about the joy of world building, and why for me it's a joy that's more like a vice I need to indulge as carefully and infrequently as possible, lest I spend all my time down a verisimilitude K-hole.

...that's a hell of a phrase. I should trademark that. 

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Hey! Remember me! I used to write books and blog about stuff and pop up on your G+ feed every week or two!

Well, I went away for a few months to lift my mood, get my head together and sort out who and what I wanted to be in 2017.

Now, just like Method Man once said, I'm back like Erin Brokovich, you know that means apocalypse.

...honestly don't know what Meth was thinking with that one.


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Well, we wrapped up our four-session WWW mini-campaign, which was... look, Chikara got nothing on this. Do they have Hitler being suplexed in the middle of the Downfall scene? Do they have valiant Martians vs the evil armies of Emperor Trump? Do they have a werewolf crotching a mad scientist or a David Bowie-themed wrestler? Do they have anyone deliberately crapping their pants to win a tag match?

Hmm. Maybe next season. You never know.

Anyway, here's a session writeup for anyone interested, along with GM commentary.

And that's us done.

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enter Springsteen mode
Emotions! HUH! Whoa-whoa-whooh!
What are they good for?
Absolutely nothin'!
Say it again!
exit Springsteen mode

Okay, that's probably unfair. I'm not great with emotions, but they have their value.

Except for depression. Depression can fuck right off.

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At last! I emerge, blinking, into the daylight, having traveled for a hundred nights (or at least two months) through the underworld of professional wrestling's narrative development, and have survived to tell the -


...wait, they're actually pulling me into the inframundo, the Mexican underworld of Lucha Underground. YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY!

(I kinda like Lucha Underground.)

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Hi folks,

We're continuing with our weird and wonderful WWW game, and I've done a writeup for session 3, which included one wrestler being hung upside down from a disco ball, an Elvis impersonator halftime show and a 4-way match that ended with an exploding time vortex.

I've also done separate GMing notes/analysis, as is my wont:

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Day 50: I continue to tumble down the wrestling rabbit hole, which contains remarkably few rabbits but a lot of men slapping each other on the chest. Time loses all meaning. I make feverish notes and lick salt from ring ropes for sustenance.

'If only I had some way of communicating with the outside world,' I think. 'If only I could tell someone of the storytelling insights I have gleaned from studying the ant-versus-supervillain, slow-motion-mime-grenade world of Chikara Pro Wrestling'. But I am lost, alone, forgotten, silent.

Day 51: oh that's right I have a blog I should update that
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