I want to be at the shore. Or in Boston.
Yesterday, I managed a decent word count on "Le Meneur des loups," a little more than 1,000 words. I'm having to rework some of the beginning, much more than I usually do in the way of revision. On a very much related note, I've cut my gabapentin dose from 1500mg a day to 1200mg a day, hoping to clear my mind a little. It's become hard to work, and that's utterly fucking terrifying. Yesterday my head wasn't quite so muddled, and I was able to see some of the trouble with the story. I'm going to try to drop down to 900mg.
June is going to be a nightmare. There's the screenplay that I've hardly touched since February. There's the short story I have to write for Dreams from the Witch House,* and, so far, nothing appropriate has occurred to me. I'll have Sirenia Digest #113. I've got to get together the manuscripts for Houses Under the Sea: Mythos Tales (Centipede Press) and the volume of juvenilia (Subterranean Press). I have an introduction to write (for another author's novel). I'll be needing to spend time at the Hay, transferring more of my papers and helping get the stuff in order. So, yes. It's going to be a fucking dreadful month.
Having written that paragraph, forget Boston and the shore, I just want to go back to bed.
"Popularity is the slutty little cousin of prestige." ~ Mike Shiner, Birdman
Last night we watched Alejandro G. Iñárritu's Birdman (2014), which deserves every one of the four Oscars it received. If there was a better film last year, it must be an amazing thing, indeed. Afterwards, we watched Brett Morgen's Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck (2015), which was as brilliant and as sad as I'd been told. One night, two incredible films. How's that for incisive, probing film commentary? Whatever. I have to save what precious little clarity I have for the writing that pays the bills.
* As I've said elsewhere, this is the last time I'll be writing for a "women only" anthology.