Tuesday, February 11, 2003
The late morning sun through my office window is white and is making blind-slat patterns on the floor. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was actually warm out there. But I do know better. Eliot was wrong. February is the cruelest month. It breeds nothing out of the dead land. But I'm not the optimist old Tsetse was, so there you go. Tom Waits on the headphones, Blood Money, and he feels very appropriate for the day.
Today, I think I'll do a little more work on the ms. for the new short story collection. I may call it To Charles Fort, With Love. I have a list of possible titles, but that's the one that Spooky and Jennifer like the best. And maybe that's what I've been doing all these years, writing letters to that old skeptic, that old heretic, sweet love letters filled with damned and squirming things. There are certainly less reputable occupations these days. I might be stuck doing something truly despicable, like managing a Wal-Mart, or clear-cutting Alaskan wilderness; I could be the President of the United States or the Director of Homeland Security. With luck, I'll only get Purgatory, or that place reserved for Dante's virtuous pagans. Tom Ridge should be so lucky. But I digress. And I have to stop that, especially these snarky "political" digressions, before someone out there devotes some special bit of spyware to this blog. Never mind. I adore Tom Ridge, and George W. Bush, and the four horses they rode in on. But yes, the ms. for the new collection. That and other things. My editor at Roc says the editorial letter on LRM will go out soon, by e-mail (I miss hardcopy). Then I'll begin the read-through, and when that's done, back to work on the novel formerly known as Murder of Angels. Or maybe I'll begin Chapter Four sooner than that. It's beginning to nag at me, impatient fetus.
I'm supposed to call Neil and I haven't. That's a note to self.
Thanks to everyone who hit the eBay auction last night. There's a lot more to come, though. I have some ARCs (advanced-reading copies, uncorrected) to go up, and some limited editions, and maybe even a ms. copy or two. Stuff piles up and I have no use for it, though its presence comforts me. But I will forsake these comforts for your well-being, gentle reader. That's just the kinda girl I am. Need the link again? Sure you do:
My Comforting Stuff
Meanwhile, I hear we should all be stocking up on duct tape. Apparently is has magical smallpox-repelling qualities.
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