Wednesday, I began a story that I'm presently calling "Protoreaster nodosus (NYC 2014)." I wrote 544 words, 544 good words. And then I hit a brick wall.
Yesterday I was swept up by one of my increasingly rare manic spikes, my racing, rambling, roller-coaster brain working faster than my mouth was able to translate, and far faster than my fingers can manage. I spent a big chunk of it talking (too fast) to Kathryn about the trouble with "Protoreaster nodosus (NYC 2014)," which turned into a general discussion of the evolution of narrative structure in my fiction, from about "Andromeda Among the Stones" to now. And why Certain Other Writers who are far less skilled than I, and who have not been publishing nearly as long, are quite a bit more popular: Because they are – here's that word – accessible. There's nothing I can do about this. Or, maybe, there's nothing I will do about this.
All that matters to me is being good.
I caught up on email.
I've been working crosswords.
Please have a look at the Spooky's Etsy shop. She's raising money for new tattoos, and, I'm giving away an Alabaster button with every purchase.
I have photographs from Manhattan, taken during our three-hour stop at Penn Station on Saturday. All were on West 31st Street, views to the southeast, northwest, and west, between 1:22 p.m. and 1:28 p.m. The last two shots were taken from the train as we left Manhattan, at 4:10 p.m. and 4:11 p.m., the views more or less westward:
Black and White,