That wouldn't be so bad.
I'll never understand readers who believe – fervently – that an author should never speak up in her own defense. Readers have the right to speak their minds about what I write, and I have the right to reply to their criticisms. There is no author/reader contract that protects them. The choice is mine, whether or not I answer my detractors. The choice is mine, whether or not I answer those who compliment me. That's just the way it works; no one is immune. If you seriously believe otherwise, you need to grow up.
If you haven't already, please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thanks!
The winter's off to a rough start. I'm trying to keep my eyes on May. In Alabama I would have said I'm trying to keep my eyes on March. But no relief, no real relief, comes to Rhode Island until sometime in May. Cold Spring holds sway. I blunder into every winter a little less stable than the winter before, it seems.
On Sunday I wrote nothing much. Sunday is sort of inexplicable, and so I'm will leave it with no attempt at explanation. I spent a lot of time reading over what I'd done on "The Mote[L] 2032." It all looked like crap. Everything I had liked about it seemed like a mistake, and I couldn't understand what virtue I'd found there. Finally, I forced myself to put the pages down and step away (yes, actual fucking pages; I edit on paper). I went back to the piece yesterday, on a far less inexplicable day. Yesterday was only shell shock, that numb, stunned feeling that comes on the underbelly of every now and then. Yesterday, I sort of "bounced back" and wrote 1,023, finishing the piece. It'll be in Sirenia Digest #94. I like it, and Sunday remains inexplicable.
My thanks to Mark West for getting my blog off Goodreads, where it was being mirrored illegally, i.e. without my consent.
And we watch stuff. The last two nights we plowed through the fifth and final season of Damages. I wasn't disappointed by the conclusion.
Little Lamb, smile