Wednesday, March 31, 2004
I believe that I have managed to forge a truce between The Dutiful Me and The Other Me. It won't hold forever, of course, but it should allow me to become functional again, at least for a while. I just hope We don't catch on to the ruse. Even Donald Rumsfeld would blush at the boldface lies I told Us to get the Mes to stop bickering and go back to work. (Shhhhhh. Not so loud. I'll hear Me.) I will try to keep the bitterness contained in the little black box I keep beneath my bed, the one lined with virginal blood, raritanium, and pages torn from Publisher's Weekly. An alarm will sound, should there be another unsightly leak.
Yesterday was marginally more productive than the day before. I got "Andromeda Among the Stones" in the mail to London. But I did not begin the Lovecraft essay. I think I need to write fiction now, rather than write about fiction, and this business with the essay has become a nuisance. It's much more important that I get to work on "The Daughter of the Four of Pentacles."
The most productive part of yesterday was an e-mail conversation, that carried on over into this morning, with my agent about The Next Novel. Spooky and I talked through a hefty chunk of the story yesterday. The pieces are falling into place. Plop. Plop. Plop. It doesn't frighten me, the prospect of sitting down to write another novel, nearly so much as I thought it would. The pain has become chronic and I am, I hope, beginning to accept that there will not be a cure in my lifetime. There will always be another novel. Anyway, over the next week I have to write out a synopsis/proposal.
Last night, we had a fabulously hot Thai dinner with friends. It was a good evening, the sort that makes me realize how much my reclusive ways have cost me.
After the vitriol of the past two or three days, this post seems terribly insubstantial. That's probably a good thing. But there may be addenda.
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