Wednesday, January 02, 2002
Considering the hangover that I woke up with this morning, today was a better day than it had any right to be. But I didn't write. I'm starting to see how this journal will soon become a sort of confession of neglect that others will point to and, "See," they'll say. "See what you were doing when you should have been slaving away on that novel?" I fear accusations of laziness almost as much as I fear dentists and nuclear war. And here I am laying traps for myself.
A wonderful package in the post today from a friend in Rhode Island, who sent me music, which is always welcomed. I can't write without music and free CDs are a blessing (if they don't suck, that is). Especially if a free CD features the splendid Hope Sandoval, as one of the ones I received today does (Hope Sandoval and the Warm Inventions, Bavarian Fruit Bread). Yum.
And I went shopping. Because, after all, this was New Year's Day and there are so many wonderful sales I'm even willing to brave the malls. Sweaters, a very long muffler, a new coat, socks — all stuff I don't have to feel guilty about buying. I wanted a couple of nifty action figures, Hagrid and the Uruk Hai leader, but I was oh so very, very good and only bought clothes. And don't ever let anyone tell you that "nifty" isn't a perfectly fine word.
I feel so remiss in not talking more about Low Red Moon in here (what's to talk about when new words aren't being written?) that I'll drop a couple of hints. It's the third book in what I will someday call my Birmingham trilogy and there will be a few familiar faces. And circus elephants. And a volcanic eruption. Two of those statements are false. How's that? Blah, blah, blah. Yeah, whatever. I know. But I can just hear an editor a few months from now — "No one's going to want to read this! It's already all over the goddamn internet!" So, there you go. Monkey-doodle-doo.
Tomorrow I promise that I will write, real book-type words, whole sentences, entire paragraphs even. Don't count on pages, though, but I'll try.
And then I can not tell you what I wrote. It will be great fun.
Have you bought your copy of Threshold yet? What? Only one copy?! Shame on you! Buy at least four. Have fun with the extras. Tear out the pages and decoupage them to your bathroom wall. Make bloody paper dolls. Use them for origami. The possibilities are almost endless. And then there's Wrong Things and From Weird and Distant Shores. Sacrifice those Amazon.com gift certificates you got for Christmas. I have a lamp habit and an elderly cat to support, after all. Sheesh.
Second verse, same as the first . . .
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