"And her glowing fingers held me as she dug my shallow grave." (3.5 Vicodin)
My thighs are sore this morning, but, alas, only from shifting around boxes in the nightmare that is our two storage units. So get your minds out of the gutter. For now. We had to take five boxes of comp copies and ARCs of various books to Pawtucket yesterday evening. Unfortunately, I opened a few boxes I ought not have opened, Πανδώρα-like, and whatever evil things the sight of lingering winter hadn't done to my head was accomplished by the sight of the fragments of lost lives. I'd actually thought I'd sit down today and write at length about what those boxes said to me, but I slept an hour late - thank you, too much weed, Vicodin, and weariness from moving boxes in a freezing warehouse. So, not today. Maybe another day.
Stale Hell is laughing at me through the window, though I have no photo for you. There's a new cold front on the way, and there's talk of the possibility of a winter storm early next week.
Yesterday, I began Chapter Six of Cherry Bomb, and I wrote 1,559 words. Every day I will write ~1,500 words on this book, and I will be done just after the end of the month. There will be no exceptions. There will be no more setting it aside. I've been carrying this stone around my neck since August, and I will now make an end to it. There were email conversations, including exchanges with my editor at Dark Horse, Michael Zulli, Peter Crowther, and Neil Clarke. I said no to two anthologies I don't have time to write for. At this point, it feels like I'm saying no to a couple of anthologies a week. There just isn't time to take on any additional writing obligations.
I washed a pair of socks.
I wasted a considerable amount of energy, and Kathryn's patience, yesterday being livid at those two sonsofbitches who plagiarized the sky, presumably because they are not bright enough to think for themselves. A kinder woman would pity them.
Self-loathing was my order of the fucking day.
We saw the last episode of Season Four of Treme. All that's left is the short fourth season. I hate to see this series end.
On Monday I'll post the "final" Table of Contents for Volume Two of the "best of" anthology, plus a surprise that I think will make quite a few of my readers happy.
Later Taters,
Aunt Beast
Stale Hell is laughing at me through the window, though I have no photo for you. There's a new cold front on the way, and there's talk of the possibility of a winter storm early next week.
Yesterday, I began Chapter Six of Cherry Bomb, and I wrote 1,559 words. Every day I will write ~1,500 words on this book, and I will be done just after the end of the month. There will be no exceptions. There will be no more setting it aside. I've been carrying this stone around my neck since August, and I will now make an end to it. There were email conversations, including exchanges with my editor at Dark Horse, Michael Zulli, Peter Crowther, and Neil Clarke. I said no to two anthologies I don't have time to write for. At this point, it feels like I'm saying no to a couple of anthologies a week. There just isn't time to take on any additional writing obligations.
I washed a pair of socks.
I wasted a considerable amount of energy, and Kathryn's patience, yesterday being livid at those two sonsofbitches who plagiarized the sky, presumably because they are not bright enough to think for themselves. A kinder woman would pity them.
Self-loathing was my order of the fucking day.
We saw the last episode of Season Four of Treme. All that's left is the short fourth season. I hate to see this series end.
On Monday I'll post the "final" Table of Contents for Volume Two of the "best of" anthology, plus a surprise that I think will make quite a few of my readers happy.
Later Taters,
Aunt Beast