Saturday, December 01, 2001
I spent much of the day being sad, in a detached, distant sort of way, that George Harrison is dead. How very, very strange. When I was very young, my mother had a few records - not many, because we didn't have much money for such things, but she had a few Beatles albums and so they were some of the first albums I ever listened to. I remember being extremely fond of "Hey Jude" and "Norwegian Wood." CNN and MSNBC actually shut up about the war in Afganastan long enough to talk about George Harrison's death today, which seems a little ironic. Or maybe it seems appropriate, and it's just that a sense of irony pervades anything appropriate these days.
But I wrote, much more and with somewhat less difficulty than yesterday. Maybe a thousand words, which made this a good writing day, about as good as it gets. Visible progress towards that elsuive ending. I will probably finish the story tomorrow, just in time to only be a little late getting it off to London. And I'll probably get hate mail from acolytes of the Order of Dagon for daring to place Innsmouth at the mouth of the Castle Neck River. But at least it will be done and I can move along to other things.
Like the novel.
I spoke with Barry Hoffman at Gauntlet today and it looks as if it'll be mid-January before Trilobite: The Writing of Threshold is released. Which is fine. I rather like that all these books have ended up being spaced out over three months, instead of piling up around the first of November, as it seemed, for a time, they would.
There's a nice review of Threshold in the new Hellnotes, written by Brian Hodge. I was so absolutely certain that reviewers would hate this book and summarily dispatch it with sharp and unkind words, and so far there's been nothing but praise. Sometimes it's very nice to be mistaken. And at least, perhaps, I won't have to contend with the "sophomore jitters" the next time around.
|
|
