Monday, March 04, 2002
I'm so sick of winter. The temperature hardly climbed above freezing today (and no, I do not care that you live in Minneapolis and your high was only 6·F - those of us cursed with living in the South should at least get warm weather in return for our misery). It might be warmer tomorrow. I'm not sure. My feet froze all day. I love writing with frozen feet. It's so Bohemian. And the ceilings are so high in my office (about 18 ft., plus the exterior wall's brick) I have to turn on the ceiling fan to coax warm air down to desk level.
I wrote another thousand words on the new Dancy story today.
My tongue still hurts.
And I spent another two hours playing Silent Hill tonight. It was that sort of a day. The sort you forget in a week if you don't write them down. But I write all my days down, here and/or in my real (i.e., paper and ink) journal. I still forget them, but I have a way to get them back, if I choose.
Oh, In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers goes to the printers this week. It should be out for the 2002 World Horror Convention in Chicago, which I will apparently be attending. I haven't been to Chicago since 1996. I had a rental car stolen and almost froze to death, all in the space of about twelves hours. So I can't truthfully say I'm looking forward to going back. But it's a good chance to see friends and spend some time with the mosasaurs at the Field Museum.
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