Tuesday, October 22, 2002
The sky is still grey. Well, not a uniform grey precisely, but many shades of blue and purple and white and black. The way the sky looks in the morning when you know there won't actually be any rain, just sullen, autumn clouds all day long.
Today, I'll try to get through the prologue and chapters One and Two of Low Red Moon, making corrections as I go. The plan is to read through the whole ms., aloud, in seven days. Then I have to write an outline for Murder of Angels, the next next novel, for Penguin. And, constant reader, we all know what I think of outlines.
I need to go to the library late today to return books and spend some time getting my ink-and-paper journal going again. It's sat, virtually neglected, since sometime in July. For a while I didn't care. Now I find I care again.
Have I mentioned that, today, I should be in Providence looking for (or having just found) a place to live? Well, there, I just did. Maybe in my next life I'll be a poet, just to insure there is absolutely no semblance of security whatsoever.
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