"...but my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun."
So, it's Hallowe'en. It's Samhain. And Spooky and I have a mild case of the plague. It hit me last night. Anyway, we have tickets for Danny Boyle's Frankenstein at the Avon tonight, and if you see us there you should probably keep your distance. Contagious and all. Yeah, this is fun. We still haven't carved the pumpkins...and today is the last farmer's market...and...candy...and...I don't wanna be sick.
Shit.
But, as I said on Facebook, Spooky's costume is a sweaty cat lady, and I'm going as an eccentric old Ravenclaw professor forced into early retirement by a scandal involving a dryad, an eggbeater, and a Venus flytrap. Spooky has the better costume. Or the 15th Doctor. Same costume, either way, so maybe both at once. Would you like a jelly baby, Ms. Granger?
Yesterday, I wrote 1,159 words on "Pickman's Madonna," a vignette that's turning out as a sort of study for parts of the third chapter of Cherry Bomb (yes, ghouls). The chapter will have the same title. You find a good title, you cling to it tenaciously. Even after it's appropriated without your permission by two other authors who could not be bothered to ask if you minded.
I just heard from my editor that she's received my corrections to the page proofs (they ended up sending a hard copy, after all) for Pink Delicious, and all's well on that front.
Will I write today? No fucking idea. I ought. I likely won't. I feel like poo, it's Hallowe'en, and I want to be twelve years old again, please.
And the wheel of the year turns,
Aunt Beast
P.S.: I need to write a short essay on the repressive, conformist effects of autocorrect. What? Are we not allowed to use words not in this programme's wee little brain? Are we not allowed the occasional portmanteau? A family name LJ or MS Word or whatever doesn't know? George Orwell, where are you?
Shit.
But, as I said on Facebook, Spooky's costume is a sweaty cat lady, and I'm going as an eccentric old Ravenclaw professor forced into early retirement by a scandal involving a dryad, an eggbeater, and a Venus flytrap. Spooky has the better costume. Or the 15th Doctor. Same costume, either way, so maybe both at once. Would you like a jelly baby, Ms. Granger?
Yesterday, I wrote 1,159 words on "Pickman's Madonna," a vignette that's turning out as a sort of study for parts of the third chapter of Cherry Bomb (yes, ghouls). The chapter will have the same title. You find a good title, you cling to it tenaciously. Even after it's appropriated without your permission by two other authors who could not be bothered to ask if you minded.
I just heard from my editor that she's received my corrections to the page proofs (they ended up sending a hard copy, after all) for Pink Delicious, and all's well on that front.
Will I write today? No fucking idea. I ought. I likely won't. I feel like poo, it's Hallowe'en, and I want to be twelve years old again, please.
And the wheel of the year turns,
Aunt Beast
P.S.: I need to write a short essay on the repressive, conformist effects of autocorrect. What? Are we not allowed to use words not in this programme's wee little brain? Are we not allowed the occasional portmanteau? A family name LJ or MS Word or whatever doesn't know? George Orwell, where are you?