Monday, December 15, 2003
I know I could have done a better job with that second addendum last night. But it was late and I was really more interested in going off to squander my life on PlayStation.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,211 words on "The Dry Salvages." I almost tried for another thousand after dinner, since I won't get anything written today, but saner heads prevailed. This novella is something I really want to love. I've never written anything else like it, in tone and scope, except perhaps "Riding the White Bull." In the end, I think it's a testament to my fear of long trips, this story, and my abhorrence of time. An old, old woman remembering something terrible beyond remembering, in an icebound Paris two hundred and fifty years from now. I want this to be one of my Very Good Stories. I'm about halfway through, so I should know soon if I'll like it that much, perhaps by New Year's Eve.
All these e-mails that pile up. A few quick acknowledgements, because I genuinely do appreciate the trouble people go to to write: to Dan Spears (I hope you called collect), to Maureen and Sissy (for their help with the Safari cache problem), to Kevin Ohannessian (for gaming advice), to Kenny Soward (who loved Low Red Moon), to Sarah (for the link), to Kevin Anderson (who also thinks there should have been a Threshold hardback), to Robby Brueggeman (stuck in Alabama), Marrije Schaake (who very kindly wished that someone would buy me a space heater with which to combat the cryosphere), and to all the members of the Academy, who were kind enough to forget that embarrassing film I made last year with Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, and Gilbert Godfried and judge my performace in Silk III: Spyder's Revenge on it's own merits.
And visit our eBay auctions, pleeeeeeze. Remember — seven out of forty-six elves polled say that my books make better Xmas gifts than a box of instant oatmeal.
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