Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Some mornings there just isn't enough Distraction. I've had breakfast, read the new National Geographic, checked my e-mail (at five different addresses), the phorum (twice), my book rankings at Amazon.com, ego-surfed Usenet, checked out what's new at SaveFarscape (NBC bought Vivendi), IMDb (I don't know which is worse, that Jeepers Creepers 2 topped the weekend's BO, or that Freaky Friday came in second), checked PZB's livejournal (but she's in Opelousas) . . . and I'm still not awake.
And I can't find the ON switch for this stupid brain thing of mine.
This year, Dragon*Con introduced me to a couple of new indignities. My favorite, the people who want to know if I publish my own books. I suppose, given that few attending the con are interested in authors (unless they're Anne McCaffrey, J. R. R. Tolkien, or write media tie-in "novels"), and that the world has been thoroughly afflicted by the blight of POD, it shouldn't come as a surprise. But it did anyway. I hope the confusion showed.
I looked one woman squarely in the eye and asked her, "Why the hell would I do a damn fool thing like that?" She looked as if I'd slapped her. I wanted to slap her.
And did I mention the rudeness? I was almost driven to attempt to highjack a lift Monday morning, after a particularly rude little butt-monkey mouthed off at me. I was still in full Na'reth mode (and make-up) and, for second or two, thought seriously about drawing my pulse pistol and ordering all their pudgy, pink, unwashed, t-shirt wearing asses off the elevator. The walk down twenty-four flights to the lobby of the Marriott would have done them good. But I figured I'd have spent the rest of the day with security, while they struggled to determine that my pulse pistol isn't a real pulse pistol.
Yes, I had a lot of fun, and it was great getting to see friends I only get to see once or twice a year, but this year's Dragon*Con did nothing to better my worm's-eye view of the human race.
And now I have the frelling novel waiting for me to get back to it.
And finish it by October.
My wicked little fetus, floating impatiently in the amniotic folds of my cerebellum, looking for the moment of its birth-completion. And, I fear, the hour is much too late for an abortion. This misbegotten thing shall be shat out into the world what desverves every twitching mole and wart, every malformed and popeyed inch of the beast.
I need a drink, and then I need to go back to bed.
I'll have to settle for the drink.
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