Somehow, I managed to sleep about eight hours last night, which hasn't happened in weeks. At least weeks. I wish I could say it left me feeling rested, but quite the opposite seems to be the case. No, maybe that's not right. But I fell asleep with ill thoughts rattling about in my head at manic speed, dice in a Yahtzee cup. I'd say that when I awoke they picked up precisely where they left off when I fell asleep...except I suspect they rattled right along through my dreams.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,251 words on the first chapter of Cherry Bomb.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Remember, a leather-bound, lettered (O) copy of Tales from the Woeful Platypus, complete with one of Spooky's handmade platypus beanies, and an arc of The Ape's Wife and Other Stories.
The thing about pretending today is April, it'll be awfully difficult to pretend it's May when it's November.
I shouldn't be sitting here.
Foremost in my mind right now – aside from my fears for what the Kathleen Tierney books are doing to my reputation as a novelist – is the thought that I'm still stuck in the same sorts of bullshit popularity contests that made high school such a nightmare. Yeah, high school. I left high school thirty-one years ago, and yet I'm still dogged by those ghosts. In part, I know, this is because I don't tell people to get a clue and fuck off when I should tell people to get a clue and fuck off. And...actually...I'm too angry about this – mostly angry with myself – to even write about it. Maybe later.