Story Updates, Procrastination Best Practices, and Grim's Dinner Disasters

Congrats to Tad, who was the only one to enter my backstage pass giveaway and hence the only winner. 🥳 Dude, you now have access to all the backstage goodies!

I'm writing and on a roll. But that doesn't mean I'm organised or professional. Most of the time, I feel as accomplished as this:

Despite the chaos, chapters 1 to 10 of The Memory Collector are now live. Here's a teaser for you:

It was a fool’s mistake to think that beneath Grim's roadmap of burn scars was a man humbled by fate. As was the assumption that his crooked right arm and clenched fingers were signs of weakness. Whenever fate dared show its face, Grim kicked it in the mouth with a savage grin. Then he stomped on it for good measure, and if time allowed, he took a piss on it as well.

Is anyone else here procrastinating with various creative side projects to avoid failing at one's actual job, because fuck-ups are surely going to happen every five minutes if one was to tackle The One Thing One's Supposed To Do? Story of my life. I kid you not.

Sounds familiar?

Dear ladies, gents and gentlethems, may I introduce one of my creative side gigs that keep me from writing? Here you go:

I love the little, gold-plated dots on her dress. A million thanks to Joe who funded the 24K gold leaves ❤️

Much of the internet is a dumpster fire thanks to white supremacists and their technocrat besties. There seem to be very few safe spaces left for anyone who isn't in the Fragile Straight White Boys with Money Club. If you are looking for a safe corner of the internet, follow me on Bluesky.

Nowadays it's hard to imagine how much time and work went into cooking meals before the induction stove, gas stove, microwave (yuck), or simple electrical stoves were invented. But like many old farms in Sweden, we still have an ancient wood stove in the kitchen (in case of apocalypse or Russian invasion, ya know) that hasn't changed much since the Victorian era. Here it is:

It's very similar to the one my grandaunt had in her small house that felt like a pre-World War II time bubble for most of my childhood. A privy that froze your butt cheeks off in winter and buzzed with flies in summer. Soda powder, not soap, to wash the dishes. A wooden washing "machine" with a crank to move the laundry around. A huge wooden laundry press that, for some reason, gave me nightmares for years. Other than the lightbulbs, the transistor radio, and the tiny boiler over the kitchen sink, nothing ran on electricity.

Cooking food, doing the dishes, and washing laundry for a small family took all day.

The main reason why women were trapped in the kitchen (other than patriarchy) must have been the bloody stove. The fire compartment is so tiny, it needs feeding every 15 minutes. It takes half an hour or longer to heat it to a temperature to boil water, and another hour until our two-litre teapot comes to a boil. To make a meal, say, a nice slow-cooked lamb stew, you have to be in the kitchen all morning and make sure the fire doesn't die. And that's only lunch.

I keep wondering who exactly is to blame for the microscopic fire compartment of old cooking stoves and if his goal was to deny his wife any fun in life. Maybe one day I'll write him into a book. Make him a side character no one likes, who dies of syphilis, gonorrhoea, and cholera simultaneously.

Yes, I am perfectly capable of holding grudges against dead people 🤣

Because merely enduring a meal is for amateurs! Why sit in polite discomfort when you could send your unpleasant relatives fleeing for the exits? Here's how to turn any gathering into a memorable catastrophe, guaranteed to ensure you'll never be expected to invite anyone again, ever.

Fascinating cut of meat. Reminds me of that corpse I found behind the docks last Tuesday. Though the colour and smell weren't nearly as suspicious. Pass the gravy, would you?

Oh, you selected this wine yourself? How brave of you. It tastes like a drowned rat's last gargle, with subtle notes of poor life choices and desperation.

Your attempt at cooking is exactly what I'd expect if a blind monkey inherited a flamethrower. Truly remarkable how you've made something both burnt and raw. That takes real talent.

Lovely soup. Shame about the cholera in the water supply. I give it three days before we're all writing our wills. Still, the carrots are nicely done.

Have you ever considered that this roast beef might have had more meaningful relationships than anyone at this table? No? Just me then. Pass the salt, you bullock-faced runt.

Well, this has been thoroughly unpleasant. I'd say let's do it again, but we all know I'm hoping for a convenient plague to prevent that. Evening, all.

Remember: If at least three people haven't left in tears, you're not trying hard enough.

You're welcome.

- Grim

P.S. If you're reading this guide at an actual dinner party, you're already my favourite kind of awful. Carry on.

💡

What’s the rudest thing you’ve ever said, or wanted to say, at a dinner party? Write your answer in the comments.

PS: If you are as terrified of watching the news as I am, here are wildlife lifestreams you can enjoy instead: