Yesterday, I wrote 1,698 words and finished "Interstate Love Song (Murder Ballad No. 8)." Today, I'll go over it for typos, etc., and I'll start getting Sirenia Digest #100 together. This truly is, I think, the best thing I've written since I wrote Black Helicopters in December 2012. And there's nothing supernatural in it. In that respect it sort of harks back to stories I was writing in the mid-nineties. Yet, I would still argue that it's mood, it's atmosphere, places it firmly within the Weird (yes, Lovecraft and I have different definitions; no, I won't share mine).
"Better off not knowing" is a concept the internet part of the world simply doesn't get, but I wish it would.
Thursday night we began, and Last night we finished, our second viewing of Season One of True Detective, and it was just as fucking brilliant the second time around. I continue to be completely amazed, and I still find it hard to believe the show was a hit. It's a grand eight-hour movie. My thanks to Marty Busse for sending us the discs. Which reminds me: I am going to get around to posting a thank-you list to everyone who sent me birthday gifts.
The humidity must be about 158% right now, after months and months of running in what felt like the single digits. Usually, I prefer high humidity, but it's something of a shock to my system after all those dry months.
I finally got copies of La Joven Ahogada, the Spanish edition of The Drowning Girl, maybe a week or so ago, and the book is beautiful and hardbound, and fuck but I wish my American publishers would try half as hard as my publisher in Madrid.
Enough for now. I can't seem to wake up today.