Saturday, May 03, 2003
It's a wonderful rainy day. Rainy springs days are one of the few things about which I have nothing bad to say. The thunder is magnificent. After breakfast, I stood in the rain for a bit. I'm under orders from Spooky to take the day off, so this will be short.
Yesterday was beyond frustrating. The DSL was down all frelling day. I kept stubbing toes and dropping things. I couldn't wake up. I was intermittently nauseous. It was almost impossible to concentrate on work. But I read through the new story a couple of times (which is now entitled "Riding the White Bull"), once with Spooky, and polished a lot. There's a short passage that still needs work (though it may actually only need deleting). I'll do that tomorrow and send it off to the editor on Monday. I finally realized yesterday, late in the afternoon, that the problem with the day was the post-partum depression that, for me, generally attends the completion of any story or novel or script. On the one hand, I'm sick to death of the "child" and just want it gone, out of my sight. I want it to be history and move along to the next conception. All I can see are its flaws and weaknesses. On the other hand, I keep pulling it back to me, straightening its clothes, fussing with its hair, cleaning its dirty face. It happens almost every single time. Back and forth. Back and forth. Be gone. Wait, you're not finished.
Spooky is sitting next to me, reading alt.gothic.fashion on her iBook, whose name is Perfidia.
Well, as I'm not working today, I suppose that's it. I think we have to make a trip to the fabric store and the comics store, plan dinner, maybe rent a movie. See? Writers can be just as dull as everyone else. Duller, really.
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