Overcast today, but a little warmer. Currently, it's 47˚F, no windchill.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,164 words on "Untitled Psychiatrist #2," which will be appearing in Sirenia Digest #133. And today
Agents of Dreamland is released to readers all the world round, and I ought to be glad, and I ought to be excited. But I'm not. This isn't the same world in which the novella was written. It's not the world for which it was written. And I just can't seem to find any enthusiasm in me to celebrate.
I'm having a lot of trouble understanding how I am to be the writer that I am in this world.
Please have a look at
the current eBay auctions. Thank you.
I finished Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses for a second time. And I learned that you shouldn't use Murray's pomade unless you want to learn what it's like to try and wash candle wax out of your hair.
Resistance, Peace, and Compassion,
Aunt Beast