Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Yesterday, I wrote an amazing 1,716 words on Chapter Ten of Murder of Angels.
I count my days in words.
Sometimes, I count my days in the absence of words.
There's always a siren singing you to shipwreck . . .
Of course, I meant to say, it was amazing that I wrote 1,716 words, not that the words themselves were necessarily amazing. I would like them to be. I would always like them to be. I so rarely see in my own work what others seem to see there. Seems like a cruel trick, that. Irony just pisses me off, most of the time. What noisy cats are we. I have moved Milton and Blake and Yeats and Arnold to the floor beside my desk, as a sort of punishment, I think. Jung is over by the printer, but that's mostly a matter of luck on his part. He didn't have the misfortune to be in the stack that include Milton, Blake, Yeats, and Arnold when I decided it would feel really frelling good to drop four heavy books on the floor. He better mind his p's and q's. I'm all about encores. If you catch my drift.
I'm not sure I do.
Last night, I went back to the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology and read "A second specimen of Lemurosaurus pricei (Therapsida: Burnetiamorpha)" by C. A. Snider and J. Welman. It's a crime that virtually no one in the world even knows what a therapsid is, but there you go. It's their loss, and there are crimes past counting in this world. Then I watched Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, which is my new guilty pleasure, now that The Osbournes has concluded. And then I went to bed and read George R. R. Martin's strangely haunting and beautiful "Bitterblooms," first published in 1977. I was thirteen years old in 1977, or fourteen, depending what one means by 1977. The story left my head in a desolate, cold, inevitable place that carried me down to sleep. It's still with me this morning, a testament to it's strength.
Her love rains down on me . . .
Christopher Lee Simmons ("Sissy," see The Dreaming #51), who kindly hosts my phorum, posted his thoughts on Low Red Moon to his livejournal yesterday. I'd sent him an advance reading copy of the novel, as a "thank you" for getting my phorum up again after the disaster of August 8th. His thoughts are cogent, I think. I doubt any of the reviewers will do much better. The circle and the line, and all.
Is there anything else to say today? The last Low Red Moon arc that I intend to auction is now on eBay, along with lots of other stuff. But I think that's it until tomorrow. No, wait. If you should find Amazon.com telling you that Silk is out of print, that's bulldren and you should know that it's most certainly not. The original Roc mass-market papberback is out-of-print, and has been since June 2001, but the Roc trade paperback (released in November 2002) is available, as is the Gauntlet Press hardback. Amazon.com is seriously in need of a clue.
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