Monday, March 18, 2002
Next time someone tells me what a wonderful existence it must be, making my living as a writer, I think that I shall tell him to be so kind as to blow it out his ass.
Just a stray thought.
Anyway, I've now gone back to the aforementioned Dancy story (last discussed here on March 7th), the one I didn't write for The Spook. I ought to be working on Low Red Moon instead, but I didn't want to see this story wind up in the Purgatory of my iBook's "Shelf" folder, along with such unfinished gems as "The Charles Fort Alphabetos," "The House on Watch Hill Point," "Notes from 80· South," "Seams," and the seemingly bottomless novella, "And Prayers For Rain" (more affectionately known as "the orphink"). That last one's been "in progress" since sometime in 1994. So, you can see why I fear that folder. It's the place I hide the craziest of relatives and all the particularly ugly children. Stories go in, but they don't come out. I've resolved that such a lingering fate must not befall this (possibly) last Dancy Flammarion story, and, thusly and henceforthly and suchwhatlike, I boldly spat up another 800+ words today. Even though I should be working on Low Red Moon.
On a lighter note, spring seems to have finally come to this otherwise deplorable part of the world. The trees are turning green. Flowers are blooming. My allergies are gearing up. The dogwoods are budding. And today the temperature reached 80·F, with 82· forecast for tomorrow. So my feet are no longer freezing and my mood is improving considerably. You may all stop sending me wool socks now. You may send money instead.
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