• Location: Bakhuysen Crater
• Mood: Fuck
• Music: Stars, "The Beginning After The End"

"And all that time you thought I was sad..."

It's snowing again. The temperature is 31˚F, with a windchill at 21˚F. Our road has become impassible. Our drive, even worse. Whatever's less navigable than a road that's impassible. You lot figure it out. But. We are promised warmer temperatures later this week, in the high forties and low fifties, "heat" the likes of which we've not seen in a long time. With luck, all this shit will begin to melt. Then the state can begin to worry about flooding. And here's yesterday's stale Hell:



I didn't write yesterday. I sat here, trying to find the solution to an insoluble plot. I do not even care, any longer, how this book ends. Only that it does end. Only that I can walk away from this latest mistake and not look back. Today, maybe I'll write. I've had to ask an editor for a month extension on a short story deadline, and I'm about to have to set Cherry Bomb aside again in order to put together Sirenia Digest #97. What have I learned from writing the Quinn books? That I'm a failure as a wedding photographer. These things stopped being cost effective at least a year ago, when I decided to shelve Fay Grimmer and write Red Delicious to replace it.

I had email yesterday from Shirley Jackson's daughter Sadie Damascus, and from my editor at Dark Horse, and from Michael Zulli.

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"What did I write? Bone. I wrote 'bone' in your hand. You were talking so much that day it sounded like a crying of bones. I was sad. Our bodies must have been unquiet." ~ Diane Arbus (1971)

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I slept well. Or so I thought. I slept quite a lot. But I feel as if I've not slept at all. And my head hurts.

Move Along,
Aunt Beast