"I don't feel it till it hurts sometimes."
A rainy autumn day, though if I didn't know it was only 59˚F out, I'd swear, from the green, that it's still summer.
I am struggling, lately, and really for the last few years, against a tremendous absence of forward momentum. I should write a lot more about this, as it affects everything around me, and perhaps I will try to do that soon.
No McWane yesterday, because I woke with a pounding headache, and the last thing I can do with a migraine is handle fragile fossil bones. Instead, I tried to work on "Refugees," because, apparently, it's smart to try and edit a story I'm already having trouble with when I have a migraine. I only made it through two sections, though before the pain won (there are currently eight sections). I hope to at least finish this second read through today. Then I have to make the first round of line edits before Spooky reads it aloud to me again, before the second round of line edits. I have to finish with this story this weekend, if only because I am growing weary of the thing, and my weariness will hurt it.
After I gave up on proofreading, we picked up two boxes from the post office. Jada is sending me a lot of her spare copies of my books and comics, for eBay and the Brown collection, and there are a few gems in the mix. Yesterday's two boxes yielded such rarities as an ARC of Wrong Things (2001), and one copy each of the horrid second edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder (Meisha Merlin, 2002) with the cover* that looks like something painted on the side of a '70s shaggin' wagon (children, ask your grandparents), Candles for Elizabeth (1998), and Aberrations (No. 27, March 1995, my first published story). My hatred for that edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder is famous. I would only agree to sign copies at conventions if I was allowed to first tear off the cover. I apparently threw out all my contributors copies. I was amazed to discover Jada had kept one. Anyway, it may be one of my rarest books. There's not one with my papers at the John Hay Library (and they have pretty much everything). It's hard to decide whether they should get this one, or if I should hang onto it, or if we should auction it for an absurd price on eBay.
I am not well this morning, though at least it's not a headache.
Last night, we rewatched all but one episode of Season One of Fleabag (2016), before watching Season Two. The show is every bit as brilliant and hilarious as I remember.
Spooky says she's made the last of this year's Halloween ornaments, so what's in the Etsy shop right now is all there's gonna be until September 2020. And she'll be taking down whatever doesn't sell after October 31st, so consider yourselves forewarned.
Later Taters,
CRK
11:27 a.m.
* Cover art by Naoto Hattori (who's actually a good artist, so I don't know what went so very fucking wrong here).
I am struggling, lately, and really for the last few years, against a tremendous absence of forward momentum. I should write a lot more about this, as it affects everything around me, and perhaps I will try to do that soon.
No McWane yesterday, because I woke with a pounding headache, and the last thing I can do with a migraine is handle fragile fossil bones. Instead, I tried to work on "Refugees," because, apparently, it's smart to try and edit a story I'm already having trouble with when I have a migraine. I only made it through two sections, though before the pain won (there are currently eight sections). I hope to at least finish this second read through today. Then I have to make the first round of line edits before Spooky reads it aloud to me again, before the second round of line edits. I have to finish with this story this weekend, if only because I am growing weary of the thing, and my weariness will hurt it.
After I gave up on proofreading, we picked up two boxes from the post office. Jada is sending me a lot of her spare copies of my books and comics, for eBay and the Brown collection, and there are a few gems in the mix. Yesterday's two boxes yielded such rarities as an ARC of Wrong Things (2001), and one copy each of the horrid second edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder (Meisha Merlin, 2002) with the cover* that looks like something painted on the side of a '70s shaggin' wagon (children, ask your grandparents), Candles for Elizabeth (1998), and Aberrations (No. 27, March 1995, my first published story). My hatred for that edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder is famous. I would only agree to sign copies at conventions if I was allowed to first tear off the cover. I apparently threw out all my contributors copies. I was amazed to discover Jada had kept one. Anyway, it may be one of my rarest books. There's not one with my papers at the John Hay Library (and they have pretty much everything). It's hard to decide whether they should get this one, or if I should hang onto it, or if we should auction it for an absurd price on eBay.
I am not well this morning, though at least it's not a headache.
Last night, we rewatched all but one episode of Season One of Fleabag (2016), before watching Season Two. The show is every bit as brilliant and hilarious as I remember.
Spooky says she's made the last of this year's Halloween ornaments, so what's in the Etsy shop right now is all there's gonna be until September 2020. And she'll be taking down whatever doesn't sell after October 31st, so consider yourselves forewarned.
Later Taters,
CRK
11:27 a.m.
* Cover art by Naoto Hattori (who's actually a good artist, so I don't know what went so very fucking wrong here).