I realized just before breakfast I have not truly left the house in a week. So, today I'm setting aside all the work, and fuck the deadlines. Shit will get written when shit gets written. Or not. Whichever.

Yesterday I wrote 1,648 words on "Oranges from Africa." And I'd be pleased with that, if I hadn't realized shortly afterwards that I'm not going about this the right way. Now I have to figure out how to take it apart and put it together again so that the problem is solved. And I need to finish it very soon, so I can get it to Vince Locke to illustrate as it will be the new story for Sirenia Digest #95, which I intend to send out on December 31st. Meanwhile, I need to finish a story for ellen_datlow, and Cherry Bomb is on hold until after the New Year (when I know whether I'll be writing a fourth Quinn novel), and The Dinosaurs of Mars languishes.

If I were the sort of person who could write ten or twelve hours a day, well, my whole career would have been different. But I'm not.

Yesterday I also signed the signatures for The Book of Silverberg (Subterranean Press), which includes my story "The Jetsam of Disremembered Mechanics," written way back in December 2009.

There was more cleaning and organizing in my office. Dust, dust, dust.

But today I'm leaving the house. The snow is slowly beginning to melt, and I'll go out and see this dirty old town under a skim of white. It fell much of yesterday afternoon and evening, the snow, but the flakes were fine and wet and amounted to far less than we'd expected. Warmer weather is forecast, so it shouldn't be with us very long.

Last night we watched Herbert Ross' marvelous Goodbye, Mr. Chips (1969). It is hard to believe O'Toole lost the best actor Oscar for that role to John Wayne.

This Sound Is Not Asleep,
Aunt Beast