"Through the dark we tiptoe."
We had a couple of decent days here. Weather-wise, I mean. Then again, I have to question what has happened to me that I'm grateful for days when the high is 59˚F. I am forgetting what warmth actually is, here at the latter stages of the worst and longest winter of my forty-eight+ years. But the point is, the "decent days" are, for now, gone. A low tonight of 28˚F. That wasn't in the forecast on Saturday. I miss quasi-reliable weather forecasts, and I miss my ability to understand what the weather is going to do based on my experience with the time of year. I miss warm, and I miss genuinely hot; I especially miss hot nights. Currently, it's 37˚F and feels like 29˚F, cloudy, wind at 13 mph, gusting to 23 mph.
I have no idea why I'm still keeping this blog. It became important to my writing career, but I don't know that it is anymore. Once upon a time, readers turned to blogs. Then again, before that, once upon a time we knew very little about the lives and day-to-day minutiae of any given author. The world was not a suffocating "cloud" - literally, figuratively - of tweets, Facebook status updates, blog entries, etc. That shit simply did not exist. A decade and a half ago. Which seems, usually, like yesterday. Most days, I tell myself that I'm keeping this public online journal (fifteen years ago, a revolutionary idea, now old hat and perhaps obsolete) for my own benefit. My memory is bad and getting worse, so, I write things down here, and in ten years I can come back and remember. Which is what journals are. Mnemonic arks. Here are the events of This Day, two by two. Everything I didn't write down here drowned.
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Yesterday, I posted Vincent Chong's wonderful cover for The Ape's Wife and Other Stories to Facebook, and now I will post it here. Oh, also, the book will be released in July:
If you have not already ordered the collection, please do.
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On Saturday, I wrote 1,660 words on Chapter Five of Red Delicious. Sunday, I wrote nothing. It just didn't happen. I signed a very large stack of eBay books. That evening, Geoffrey (readingthedark) visited and stayed until after midnight, our first visitor here since early December - four months; how does that even happen to people? Yesterday was swallowed, unexpectedly, by work on Alabaster: Boxcar Tales, so no work was done on Red Delicious, and no writing was done on anything. Today, I have to try to get back to the place where I left off with the story on Saturday.
There were such astounding dreams this morning. But all that remains of them is glitter and confetti.
We Really Are Ants Now,
Aunt Beast
I have no idea why I'm still keeping this blog. It became important to my writing career, but I don't know that it is anymore. Once upon a time, readers turned to blogs. Then again, before that, once upon a time we knew very little about the lives and day-to-day minutiae of any given author. The world was not a suffocating "cloud" - literally, figuratively - of tweets, Facebook status updates, blog entries, etc. That shit simply did not exist. A decade and a half ago. Which seems, usually, like yesterday. Most days, I tell myself that I'm keeping this public online journal (fifteen years ago, a revolutionary idea, now old hat and perhaps obsolete) for my own benefit. My memory is bad and getting worse, so, I write things down here, and in ten years I can come back and remember. Which is what journals are. Mnemonic arks. Here are the events of This Day, two by two. Everything I didn't write down here drowned.
---
Yesterday, I posted Vincent Chong's wonderful cover for The Ape's Wife and Other Stories to Facebook, and now I will post it here. Oh, also, the book will be released in July:
If you have not already ordered the collection, please do.
---
On Saturday, I wrote 1,660 words on Chapter Five of Red Delicious. Sunday, I wrote nothing. It just didn't happen. I signed a very large stack of eBay books. That evening, Geoffrey (readingthedark) visited and stayed until after midnight, our first visitor here since early December - four months; how does that even happen to people? Yesterday was swallowed, unexpectedly, by work on Alabaster: Boxcar Tales, so no work was done on Red Delicious, and no writing was done on anything. Today, I have to try to get back to the place where I left off with the story on Saturday.
There were such astounding dreams this morning. But all that remains of them is glitter and confetti.
We Really Are Ants Now,
Aunt Beast