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.
"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)
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.