Snow all yesterday and then a weird ice fall last night. Not like the ice storms in the South. And not sleet. Ice falling. Today, the sky is grey-white sludge. Tonight the snow returns. Currently, the temperature is 36˚F. Something strange happened last night; the temperature rose above freezing after dark. That always seems to strange to me ( Read more... )

I think that I am writing postcards to myself.

Increasingly, I find even the prospect of self-promotion to be distasteful. I know that I have to do it. All writers have to do it. Even the high-priced, classy writers with genuine pimps usually find it necessary to stoop to the self-promotion that's the only option for literary crack whores like me ( Read more... )

We have some serious weather sweeping across Connecticut towards us. The wind outside is wonderful. I have the office window open just a crack, letting in the fresh, storm-scented air.

Yesterday was a good writing day, just not as good as the three days before it, those three rather exceptional days. Yesterday, I did 1,052 words, and each one ( Read more... )

A so-so writing day yesterday. I did 1,042 words and finished Section VII of "Bainbridge." But I'm entirely uncertain whether those 1,042 words are very good, so I will likely spend a significant portion of today reworking Section VII. Part of me loves this story, this story I've been waiting so many years to be able to sit down and write, and part ( Read more... )