Yesterday was a disaster, so far as writing is concerned. I'd expected to finish "Dead Letter Office." Instead, I spent an hour and a half tearing apart and reworking everything I wrote on Monday, which, it turned out – or at least to yesterday's eyes – was a load of crap. I'm not sure what I'll see when I look at the pages today. On Facebook, I wrote: To my mind, as a writer I am first and foremost a stylist. Above all else, it's about the sound of each word in each sentence, of thousands of words in conjunction with one another. And the "trick" is maintaining mood, cadence, tone, etc. But then come these days when I can't hear the music, and I am, on these days, well and truly fucked.
Spooky went to Art Freek on Wickenden Street and got a new tattoo. I'll post a photo tomorrow. It's one she'd been planning for a long time.
I read "A new Mesembriornithinae (Aves, Phorusrhacidae) provides new insights into the phylogeny and sensory capabilities of terror birds."
Last night, after dinner and GW2, we watched Dwight Yoakum's South of Heaven, West of Hell (2000), which I think is somewhat better than its reputation. Despite being a meandering, episodic, unfocused mess, it has a charm, and I've long admired its determination to be such a soft-spoken ghost story that leaves the inexplicable unexplained. And few films have ever boasted an odder cast of characters. It deserves better than the 4.1 it has on IMDb and and the 14% on Rotten Tomatoes. But I have a soft spot in my heart for weird, ugly children, having spawned many myself.
Yesterday was the 107th anniversary of the Tunguska explosion, that warning shot across the bow of our species.