I do not want to spend all day trapped in the house, but I have very little choice in the matter.
No writing yesterday. The talk with Marvel went well, but no writing.
I typed CHAPTER FOUR, read William Blake, tried to find a chapter title, read back over part of Chapter Two, and that's when the phone rang with the news about my editor leaving Penguin. Which effectively ended the writing (or, rather, the possibility of writing) for the day. Like I said earlier in the week, the chaos shows no sign of abating.
Anything else of note about yesterday? Not really. Subterranean Press kindly sent me a copy of Brian Lumley's Freaks. I read a chapter of The Mistaken Extinction, and then, later, read Sonia H. Greene's "The Horror at Martin's Beach" (revised by her husband, H. P. Lovecraft) and R. H. Barlow's "Till A' the Seas" (also revised by Lovecraft). There was little to like about the former, save it was very short, and the latter was not much more than an extended outline trying to pass itself off as a short story. There was great potential in "Till A' the Seas," if it had been a novella, perhaps, or even a novel.
I need to be reading over my notes on Woonsocket, looking at the photos I took there this past summer, reading the two books on the town sent to me by Spooky's mother, thinking about What Happens in Chapter Four. I've been doing very little of any of that.
I've sort of reversed my opinion of the new CD by The Wedding Present, Take Fountain. I really, really like the first track, "Interstate 5," but after that the tone changes radically, and the grim wit and edge of the first song dissolves to whimsy and poor irony. It was a disappointment. But I do like that first track. Too bad it was not indicative of the entire disc.
Okay. I'm just rambling on. Move along. There's nothing more to see here. The men with the firehoses will be along shortly to wash away the stains.