"It's gonna be a grey, grey dawn grey like the winter, a thousand years, lost and gone..."
Today, in Providence, we can pretend it's summer. Sunny. The window's open. Presently, 80˚F (after a low of 58˚[!!!]) last night), with a forecast high of...oh, wait. Sorry. Strike that. It's currently only 79˚F, with a forecast high of 80˚F. Yeah, summer. Anyway, tomorrow, we are, unexpectedly, being forced out of the house for reasons that are just too stupid and annoying to even get into, and we won't be able to return until late in the evening. Which means we have to board Hubero - again - and NOT WORK for several hours afterwards. I think we're going to see Batman Rising, and then, maybe, swimming at Beavertail (if we can hit the tide just right).
Yesterday, I sat down to write and, within an hour, was feeling weird. Tired, but in a way that's difficult to explain. Spooky had to go out and run errands. I managed to stay upright until she returned. At that point, I'd managed to write 610 words on "One Tree Hill (The World As Cataclysm)." I apologized, then passed out on the sofa. I slept about an hour an a half. In the afternoon. This is the sort of thing that never happens. I awoke feeling horribly dehydrated, and spent the evening drinking everything in sight. No other symptoms. I thought I'd never get to sleep after that epic "nap," but I went to bed at my usual hour, say 2:30 ayem, listened to the audiobook version of The Haunting of Hill House (no more of that dreadful adaptation of Neuromancer; I just can't endure it), and was asleep within minutes. I didn't awake until almost eleven ayem. So...no idea what happened yesterday. Spooky felt bad the day before, she says. Were we fighting off a bug? Was this very delayed exhaustion from Readercon (that seems unlikely)? Am I just tired? No fucking idea. Regardless, I'm hemorrhaging time, and have most of a novel to get written in August.
I dreamt, this morning, that I was living in London, which was also Atlanta, and there was a fantastic sort of water tornado (not a waterspout) that tore through the city. I recall, specifically, red-stone shingles being ripped from roofs, tossed by the thousands into the stormy sky.
Okay: Platypus. Words. Fear of failure. Ticking clock. Onwards...
Hoping for Heat,
Aunt Beast
Yesterday, I sat down to write and, within an hour, was feeling weird. Tired, but in a way that's difficult to explain. Spooky had to go out and run errands. I managed to stay upright until she returned. At that point, I'd managed to write 610 words on "One Tree Hill (The World As Cataclysm)." I apologized, then passed out on the sofa. I slept about an hour an a half. In the afternoon. This is the sort of thing that never happens. I awoke feeling horribly dehydrated, and spent the evening drinking everything in sight. No other symptoms. I thought I'd never get to sleep after that epic "nap," but I went to bed at my usual hour, say 2:30 ayem, listened to the audiobook version of The Haunting of Hill House (no more of that dreadful adaptation of Neuromancer; I just can't endure it), and was asleep within minutes. I didn't awake until almost eleven ayem. So...no idea what happened yesterday. Spooky felt bad the day before, she says. Were we fighting off a bug? Was this very delayed exhaustion from Readercon (that seems unlikely)? Am I just tired? No fucking idea. Regardless, I'm hemorrhaging time, and have most of a novel to get written in August.
I dreamt, this morning, that I was living in London, which was also Atlanta, and there was a fantastic sort of water tornado (not a waterspout) that tore through the city. I recall, specifically, red-stone shingles being ripped from roofs, tossed by the thousands into the stormy sky.
Okay: Platypus. Words. Fear of failure. Ticking clock. Onwards...
Hoping for Heat,
Aunt Beast