Sunday, November 24, 2002
Sunday morning. Six days left until the move. My lips are chapped. The cat is wandering about, perplexed by the chaos of boxes and newspaper. My feet are cold.
Yesterday I managed a few hours of work, despite the packing. I wrote liner notes for Our thoughts make spirals in their world, the NYARLATHOTEP CD being included with Trilobite: The Writing of Threshold. Liner notes are one of those things I'd never written before, but I think it turned our rather nicely. Derek was happy with it. Also, I was invited to attend the 2003 International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts (Ft. Lauderdale, FL, March 19-23, 2003) as an attending author. ICFA is an academic literary conference, rather than a fan convention, and I get a twenty-minute reading. It's very cool, but I can't imagine what I can read in only twenty minutes. And I did some updating on the website yesterday, too — Jennifer usually does that, but she was up to her elbows in newsprint. Today I need to do a little work and a lot of packing. We have to go out in search of boxes again. Not-squished boxes.
I'm trying not to think about how busy December's going to be for me. How, as soon as we're moved in and everything's unpacked, I have a nasty pack of deadlines to either satiate or fend off. How I have SpookyCon and the trip the San Francisco just after New Year's. How it's cold outside and what I'd really like is a long summer night, right about now, filled with nothing but conversation, music, and maybe a little absinthe.
I'm stalling. The cardboard wasteland calls. I am helpless to resist.
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