Today, we have sun and blue sky and cold air. It's 36˚F, but it feels like 32˚F. Our lovely polar vortex, ou tourbillon polaire, der Polarwirbel, and so on, and so forth, is spinning its way back to us. No spring this year, kiddies. Go the fuck home.
Yesterday I found a title – "Chewing on Shadows" – for a new story for Sirenia Digest #97. I even found an epigraph. I even found a head full of provocative images. But the narrative thread, and, most importantly, the point of views eluded me. Better luck today, lady.
Both The Ape's Wife and Other Stories and Alabaster: Wolves have been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award. The final ballot was released yesterday. Also, I'll never ceased being amused and baffled (simultaneously) by nincompoops who whine about Dancy Flammarion beings a "ridiculous" name. I've been seeing that since 2001. Good thing they never had to deal with Salmagundi Desvernine.
I sorted books, to be sure that none of the books that are about to go away to the library in North Kingston had uncashed checks or love letters or declarations of war hidden inside them. Today, I have to load them into the van. I dusted my office. I played a little GW2 last night, and then had some good RP in The Secret World. Spooky and I began watching Kevin Spacey in House of Cards, and it's pretty excellent. Which is almost as impossible as being very unique. Or a little unique. Or slightly pregnant.
And that was, give or take, yesterday.