This is one of those mornings when the futility is enough to keep me from ever writing again. The keenness of my awareness of the futility. It becomes an actual, physical sensation.

And then there's the fact that I will never be considered anything but a "horror writer," not by most. Idiotic reductionism.

Helen brought 3.2 inches of heavy, wet, shitty snow to Providence just before dawn. I couldn't sleep, so I was awake, watching. It was pretty while it fell, but in the light of day this is the sort of snow that somehow manages to make winter even uglier. There are photos (though I'm not certain why I bothered):




From the pantry window, the snow lies, pretending beauty.


But the view from the front parlor tells the true story.



In was going to give the usual tiresome account of the previous day's minutiae, but, frankly, fuck it. All that matters is that Sirenia Digest #85 went out to subscribers last night, and hopefully it made it to all those inboxes.

I'm going outside to sit in the snow until I'm numb.

Not Yet Comfortably Numb,
Aunt Beast