A few days ago this LJ quietly celebrated its eleventh birthday. The last eleven years have brought more changes than I ever could have imagined. A few of them weren't bad. A miniscule number were even good.
Finally, last night, after the application of a judicious amount of weed, I slept. I slept hard for a bout six and a half hours, woke, then slept another half hour. That's the best sleep, by far, that I've had in a week. I'm hoping this episode of insomnia has passed.
Hopefully it means that I can write today, having slept last night. Nothing was written yesterday. I'll be going back to work on "Dancy Versus the Pterosaur."
“The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice.” ~ William Faulkner
Unfortunately, the corollary is pretty obvious and obviously true: the same goes for shitty artists.
Please (!) have a look at the current eBay auctions. There's a copy of La fille qui se noie, the French language edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, and we won't be offering many if those. There's also a copy of Cherry Bomb, a Cherry Bomb ARC, a copy of Blood Oranges, and a copy of Alabaster: Grimmer Tales. Please, to a look. Thank you.
Last night, after tuna casserole, we watched Tim Burton's Big Eyes, an eerily charming and visually striking film. I went in completely ignorant of the whole Keane fiasco. But I do hope that no one was supposed to believe, even for a moment, that Christoph Waltz was making even a halfhearted attempt to hide his Austrian accent. And we finished the first season of Daredevil. Bravo, Drew Goddard and Company.