Thursday, March 13, 2003
I awoke unaccountably early today, considering that Kathryn and I were up working until about one a.m. I lay in bed from 7:40 until just before a quarter of nine, hoping to get back to sleep, but unable to do anything but fret about everything from the impending war to a nightmare I'd awakened from to the things I have to get done today.
Tomorrow night, Farscape, 8 p.m./12 a.m. EST/PT, the Sci-Fi Channel (soon to be in name only). Only two episodes left now. I've been trying to get into Enterprise, hoping it might fill the void, but, on the whole, the show's about as interesting as a cold bowl of Cream of Wheat.
The headache was with me most of yesterday, but seems to have finally faded in my sleep.
The work that's keeping me from working. Things are likely to be this was at least until after ICFA next week. Odds and ends. Odds, mostly. There never are many ends. Anyway, the Monday or Tuesday after I return from Florida, I'll be getting back to work on Murder of Angels. Back to my one thousand words a day. I just checked and I finished Chapter Three way the hell back on January 24th, which means that today will be the forty-eighth day since I've actively worked on the novel, since I contributed anything to it. Here it is March 13th. It all started when I stopped work on the novel in order to write "La Peau Verte," which I see I finished on February 4th. That was fine, of course. That was necessary. It produced a very good story. But then I allowed myself to get bogged down, waiting for the editorial letter for Low Red Moon, and almost a month was wasted on nothing much at all. I'm not sure how many of the Nine Deadly Sins that makes me guilty of, offhand. A goodly number, I expect.
When one is one's own boss, one must ride one's own back, or risk catastrophe.
It was 77F here in Atlanta yesterday.
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