"Well, that's my opinion," has never been an acceptable excuse for being an asshole or an idiot. Or both.
Spooky's on her way back to Paper Nautilus with another four boxes of books. We can almost see the floor of the middle parlour again. It's not easy, divesting myself of hundreds of books, but it's necessary. Never mind the clutter and issues of quality of life, I have begun to worry that I cannot take care off the objects that are truly precious and precious to me (some of which are books). I need to focus on only a few things and stop thinking I have any business with a goddamn library. Better I take care of my 1973 World Book encyclopedias than, say, all those books on James Joyce or the volumes of Arthuriad scholarship.
Yesterday I made a sort of rough beginning to "Oranges from Africa." A little better than 600 words of a projected 2,500. I'm hoping to have it done by tomorrow. Another vignette. Another trifle. Another issue of the Digest. Trifle is not, by the by, a dirty word. I adore trifles. I wish more authors were not afraid of turning their backs on the tyranny of "what happens next." Story is all fine and good, but sometimes a scene suffices. Sometimes just an image is enough. Which is one reason that the Digest exists. There are often things I want to write – as much as I want to write anything – that cannot find a home in the Sovereignty of Plot that we call the literary marketplace, bless its heart.