Unstable Designs

Or, why Joanne Rowling needs to write more books.

Spent my afternoon today scrawling on pieces of paper trying to finish the ad designs for tomorrow after spending all of yesterday reading her book. I realized however that reading the book was probably the most fun I'd had in a while now and I really need to read more.

I'd read the Top Ten series by Alan Moore, which if you can imagine it is a police procedural with the caveat that all of Neopolis' inhabitants, from slum-dweller to hostage negotiator, vermin to politician, all have superpowers.

The new rookie on the job, Robyn 'Toybox' Slinger, has as her superpower a box of toy helicopters, soldiers and tanks that do her bidding. Her first day on the job entails meeting her co-workers; a superintelligent wisecracking dobermann, Sergeant 'Hyperdog' Caesar, Girl One, who can manipulate her skin's appearance at will, Irma Geddon, tactical nuke sporting working class American, Harry Lovelace 'The Word', whose orders cannot be disobeyed, and Jeff Smax, her new partner, who lost his old partner in the line of duty; huge, brooding, abrasive... invincible.

The series is more fun than the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. It's definitely on par with Watchmen as my favorite Alan Moore book; though it is not as deep as Watchmen, it certain has no illusions about what it is; detective drama, whodunnit, howdunnit, whydunnit, and most importantly, coffeeanddonutsdarnit.

It's brilliantly written. If you can, do pick it up. Consider this my highest recommendation.


I love art of all kinds, particularly words. They speak to me, no pun intended, in much the same way a perfect note sings to a musician. A beautiful turn of phrase is a pleasure to hear (and compose), yet the perfect word is often elusive and highly sought. A large part of what I do in school involves shaping the perfect idea; some people liken it to painting on a blank canvas, although I think Neil Gaiman had it right when he said it was like chipping away at a block of marble, cutting away what isn't to reach what really is.

Such overwhelming beauty floats all about us; in the words unread, the music unheard, the feelings unsaid. The eternal problem; crystallizing it into tangible form, to pluck beauty from the air, say 'this is a fine specimen,' and slip it into our pockets, or our hearts, and carry it for ever. Sometimes we'll take it out, and look over it, and sometimes it will shine unhindered by the years, and sometimes it will seem scabbed and dull.

I think all our lives we seek that moment of crystallized beauty. We collect them, like shells, and leave them on shelves to remind ourselves of why we make the trek.

He must go mad, designing them.