Thursday, May 06, 2004
I'm sitting here, staring at the veritable mesa of pages, the Murder of Angels CEM and galleys, that have to be read in the next week or so. Typeset, Murder of Angels comes out just slightly longer than Low Red Moon (340 pp. vs. 338 pp.). We're going to get through the prologue and Chapter One ("Dark in Day") this afternoon. We have to do at least a chapter a day to make the May 20th deadline. Fortunately, it's a flexible deadline.
Bill Schafer (Subterranean Press) called yesterday afternoon to congratulate me on the sale of Daughter of Hounds, and we talked about various upcoming projects — To Charles Fort, With Love; the "Alabaster" chapbook; the sf novella I'm writing for him this fall and the possibility of a short sf novel next year; the Dancy Flammarion collection. A lot of stuff. More than it seemed like yesterday. I have all of that in the next year, plus short stories I've agreed to do (and will agree to do), plus The Daughter of Hounds. It's a good thing I'm getting all the work on Murder of Angels out of the way this spring.
Last night (11:32 p.m.), I made a LiveJournal post that I neglected to cc to the blog. That's a habit I really don't want to get into, because I want both journals to be as complete as possible. So, I'm pasting it in below:
Just found out about Paula Guran's review of Low Red Moon in Cemetery Dance #48. If you don't have access to the magazine, you can check it out on her website. It cheered me up a bit.
Also, thanks to Roel Ramos for catching "Faces in Revolving Doors" this morning, when I was too asleep to breathe.
And I don't suppose there's any point in me continuing to pretend that in twenty-one days I won't be turning -0 (you can fill in the blank for yourselves; an unsightly combination of vanity and sheer horror prevents me from typing the first numeral). As Spooky's already mentioned in her LJ, I have a wish list up on Amazon. True to my paradoxical nature, though I really don't want to be reminded of this whole thing, I wouldn't object to goodies. Only a fool objects to goodies, no matter how frelling old she might be.
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