"Pull the blindfold down..."
"If you could tell the truth, you could write a book."
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On Friday, I wrote 1,101 words on "Love is Forbidden, We Croak and Howl." Yesterday, I wrote another 1,451 words on the story and found THE END.
At least for now. I think it has a wry, wicked sense of humor, that was actually sort of an accident. Like a funny razor blade. That pleases me. It will appear in Sirenia Digest #78, along with something I haven't yet written.
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A craftsman knows in advance what the finished result will be, while the artist knows only what it will be when he has finished it. But it is unbecoming in an artist to talk about inspiration; that is the reader's business. ~ W. H. Auden, "A Poet of the Actual"
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Last week, I thought that summer had finally come to Providence. It was almost hot. But then there was yesterday, which was shit and rain. Today is a brief, sunny, vaguely warm respite before the return of February. A solid week of rainy days, with highs in the fifties and sixties. In June.* If I had the money, today I would buy train tickets for Spooky and me, and we'd go visit my mother in Birmingham (well, Leeds), until New England gets its shit together. Not a day passes now that I do not think about returning to Alabama or Georgia. Here, the weather makes me miserable, but I can walk unmolested and untaunted down streets and sidewalks, through malls and...well, you get the picture. While, were I in the South, the weather would be heaven, while every single time I dared to leave home there would almost certainly be at least one incident of hatefulness and bigotry I'd have to endure (yes, it's that bad). Scylla and Charybdis. Choose your flavor of Hell.
Yesterday marked the fourth anniversary since we moved from Atlanta to Providence.
Close to the Quick,
Aunt Beast
* There is a bright spot. It fucks with the tourons. Anything that makes them miserable can't be all bad.
---
On Friday, I wrote 1,101 words on "Love is Forbidden, We Croak and Howl." Yesterday, I wrote another 1,451 words on the story and found THE END.
At least for now. I think it has a wry, wicked sense of humor, that was actually sort of an accident. Like a funny razor blade. That pleases me. It will appear in Sirenia Digest #78, along with something I haven't yet written.
---
A craftsman knows in advance what the finished result will be, while the artist knows only what it will be when he has finished it. But it is unbecoming in an artist to talk about inspiration; that is the reader's business. ~ W. H. Auden, "A Poet of the Actual"
---
Last week, I thought that summer had finally come to Providence. It was almost hot. But then there was yesterday, which was shit and rain. Today is a brief, sunny, vaguely warm respite before the return of February. A solid week of rainy days, with highs in the fifties and sixties. In June.* If I had the money, today I would buy train tickets for Spooky and me, and we'd go visit my mother in Birmingham (well, Leeds), until New England gets its shit together. Not a day passes now that I do not think about returning to Alabama or Georgia. Here, the weather makes me miserable, but I can walk unmolested and untaunted down streets and sidewalks, through malls and...well, you get the picture. While, were I in the South, the weather would be heaven, while every single time I dared to leave home there would almost certainly be at least one incident of hatefulness and bigotry I'd have to endure (yes, it's that bad). Scylla and Charybdis. Choose your flavor of Hell.
Yesterday marked the fourth anniversary since we moved from Atlanta to Providence.
Close to the Quick,
Aunt Beast
* There is a bright spot. It fucks with the tourons. Anything that makes them miserable can't be all bad.