It's 17˚F with a windchill of 10˚F.
In Miami, it's 76˚F, and the heat index is 81˚F. I'll trade.
There this no reason in the world that could have all been one paragraph. Oh, well. At least there was French toast and bacon for breakfast.
Yesterday I wrote another measly 622 words on "Oranges from Africa." This piece is determined to come very slowly, if it comes at all. I have at least begun to see what it is, or, in the vulgar argot, what "happens" Rather, what has happened that is the subject of a conversation in a café on a December day. The rest of yesterday's energy was spent on the office, getting it in new working order now that almost all of the books I'm discarding are out of it. Spooky braved the ice and hauled four more boxes to Paper Nautilus yesterday, and they took all but eight volumes. We now have in excess of five hundred dollars in credit with the shop. Likely, another couple or three boxes will be headed their way after the holidays. Yesterday I also read over the galley pages of "Love is Forbidden, We Croak and Howl," which will be appearing in Ellen Datlow's Lovecraft's Monster's (Tachyon, April 15th).
Last night we began a Peter O'Toole binge with a couple of oddities. First, Richard Benjamin's My Favorite Year (1982), which I think can accurately be described as Mad Men crossed with The Carol Burnett Show. But it's a charming film, and it's funny. However, we had the misfortune of following it with Ivan Passer's Creator (1985), which I wish I could say is the worst film Peter O'Toole ever agreed to act in, but I'm quite certain that isn't true. After all, there's Phantoms. Tonight we will watch a good – or even excellent – Peter O'Toole film. Or films.
Now. I need caffeine.