Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Yesterday would have been better served by staying in bed. Or getting out of here, parking my ass on a barstool somewhere, and drinking all day. It was precisely that productive.
To show for yesterday, I have the title to my next short story, "The Daughter of the Four of Pentacles," and a page of indecipherable, handwritten notes regarding same (me and longhand, that doesn't happen very often anymore). This story will finish off my commitment to Thrillers II.
I just received an invitation to a science-fiction anthology. I wrote so little short fiction last year, because I had no time for anything but Murder of Angels, and this year seems to be trying to make up the difference. I'm just sorry that soon I'll have to set it all aside and get to work on another novel.
I got word from my LA agent this morning regarding Alabaster, the Dancy screenplay. He's very happy with what we have so far, which is a huge relief, and now I have to find time to get another fifteen or twenty pages of it written before the end of the month.
I'd truly hoped to make it down to Ft. Lauderdale this coming weekend for the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts (ICFA). This will mark the third consecutive year that the conference has invited me to read and I've planned to go, then pulled out at the last minute. So I will understand completely if I'm never asked again. It was my hope that I could be a little more visible this year. I think there are people who are now pretty sure that I've died and someone else is writing all this crap. This year, Spooky and I went so far as to reserve a hotel room and register for ICFA, but, in the end, it came down to the amount of work that's undone and the fact that I can stay here and make money or go there and spend money. Attending conventions and conferences is expensive and time consuming, and rarely ever cost effective. More's the pity. I know writers who are no more successful, even less successful, than I am, who seem to attend every important con, every year. I honestly don't know how they do it.
I feel as if I'm asleep and writing this. I could close my eyes and every word would vanish from the screen. The IV caffeine drip must be empty...
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