It was a decent day yesterday, and my mood was decent all day and night. I spent several more hours working on "Our Lady of Arsia Mons," then pronounced it fairly well tinkered with and sent it away to the editors of Dreams from the Witch House. Next on my "to-do" list is assembling the ms. for Houses Under the Sea: Mythos Tales, so that I can begin the arduous task of proofreading that monster; it's going to be near to 200k-words long, and I have to get some notes to Dark Horse about the art on issues two and three of The Good, the Bad, and the Bird. And after that, it's all about the screenplay for at least two weeks. Well, except I have to go to the storage unit on Monday, and on Thursday I deliver the second batch of my papers – along with Pandora, my Mac Color Classic – to the John Hay Library.
I have too much to do to have fucking insomnia. But I've had it since we came back from Woodstock on March 31st.
Have I said yet that I'm only ever writing one more Lovecraftian "mythos" tale? Well, it's a fact. My last will be a novella written for Centipede Press, for Houses Under the Sea. After that, no more shoggoths or Mother Hydra or Elder Gods for me. People will ask me to explain why, and they won't like any of my answers. But here's an answer, anyway: It's become too easy.
Just after I started writing this entry, Selwyn settled into my office window, and I took a photo. A crappy photo, but here you go:
Last night, after a dinner of mushroom and cheese ravioli (mystery cheese) with sausages, we played a shit-ton of GW2. I'm enjoying it again, after leaving the game for so long. And then we began our fourth viewing of Season One of True Detective, in preparation for the beginning of Season Two on the 21st.
And now...fuck, I have no idea what I'm doing today. On only four hours sleep.