Saturday, December 29, 2001
Today I wrote not a word on Low Red Moon. Other writerly business got in the way. That happens a lot, actually. In the old days, back when I was writing Silk in anonymity, editors didn't call or e-mail with urgent requests, nothing needed a third revision yesterday, I didn't have to worry about getting photographs and cover art off to magazines, or about finishing interviews. I just wrote.
Of course, I was also always broke. Which makes this better, even on the horribly frustrating days when I can't get to the novel for all the white noise.
Far better to fret over which author's photo to use this time than to be out shoplifting cans of tuna fish (I don't even like tuna fish).
I begin to fear, though, that this journal is starting to spiral into the Black Pit of Triviality. I'll do my best to see that it doesn't. Perhaps tomorrow night I will be struck by profound thoughts and amusing witticisms. WHAP! they'll come, just like a hickory branch to the forehead, and I'll redeem myself for the lapse of late December and the thin entries that are coming in its wake.
And cute little frogs will sing Frank Sinatra while dollar bills fly out of my butt.
Stay tuned, kiddies.
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