Friday, February 11, 2005
Yesterday was, by and large, a write-off, a waste, a loss. Then, my frelling brain finally decided to kick in about 1:30 a.m., hit overdrive almost instantly, and I had to take an extra Ambien to switch it off again so I could get to sleep (about four, I think).
Did I do anything constructive yesterday? Not really. Mostly, I raved and fretted. I did dig out an old issue of the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology that I'd missed actually reading because of the move from Birmingham to Atlanta back in '02. I read "A new species of gigantic mosasaur from the Late Cretaceous of Isreal" and "The osteology of Masiakasaurus knopfleri, a small abelisauroid (Dinosauria: Theropoda) from the Late Cretaceous of Madagascar" and "The first mosasaur (Squamata) from the Late Cretaceous of Turkey." Nice, but it didn't get anything written.
I suppose I should thank the people who showed their support for Sadie, though I did not exactly mean to give the impression that I was the one who didn't love her. I mean, anyone might have been up for that pink slip. It was nothing personal. If Sadie had gotten one, Deacon would have been close behind her, and the story woluld have changed. Emmie would not be Emmie Silvey but Emmie Someone Else. Soldier would have also been someone else. I was just picking on Sadie because I have to deal with her at the start of Chapter Three. Mostly, I was complaining about poor book sales, which ought to have nothing whatsoever to do with the writing of books, but which actually do, as it turns out. Someone like Robert Jordan may puke up any number of The Chronicles of [insert Tolkien ripoff here], because he has the sales to back him up. He has the pablum-loving public, bless 'em, to buy his books. And I care not if Jordan is reading this (though that seems highly unlikely). He writes shamelessly derivative pablum, and he writes it for people who read pablum, and he surely makes enough money off it that he ought not be bothered by me telling him so. If he is, bothered by it, I mean, he can find my e-mail address.
Pablum (and money and hate and centrifugal force) makes the world go round. La-la-la-de-dah.
My copies of the hardback of Low Red Moon are on their way to me via UPS. They will come today or Monday. It already looks like a warehouse around here.
The cold. There is a great deal of it. A bitterly cold day turned into a perfectly frigid night which gave way to another bitterly cold day. But we are promised a high of 60F tomorrow, a good ten degrees inside my comfort zone, so I only have to stick it out a little longer. I cannot imagine how I will ever beat this thing to the point that I could live in the northeast, as I would like to do. At this point, Belize or Greece might be more realistic options.
Spooky gave me a cute Grover keychain yesterday. My old Zero keychain broke a few weeks ago, and I've been carrying my keys around on a loop of dried alpaca instestine.
Are you all aware of Uncle Peter's new volume of Lovecraft? Yes, it's true. The American Library finally got off it's eema and devoted a volume to Lovecraft. I'm ordering mine today. You should do likewise. I'm not so sure, though, about Amazon.com's claim that Lovecraft and Theodore Roosevelt are "better together." I'm not sure about that, a'tall.
11:13 AM
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