Yesterday I finally finished "Dead Letter Office." I think I got the push I needed to the final 750 or so words by reminding myself that not every story I write can be great. Since December 2005, I've written 136 pieces of fiction for Sirenia Digest (plus the mountain on non-SD fiction), and, well, they can't all be brilliant. That's just the fucking way it goes. I'm not a die press. I'm not an assembly line. I'm not McDonalds. And this is me telling myself to get the fuck off my back. Note that I do this frequently; it only rarely works. Today I'll proofread the story and assemble the 113th issue of the digest. And, by the way, I am extremely grateful my subscribers, and I do sincerely hope that you enjoy "Dead Letter Office," as it represents eight days of my life. The word count came to ~5,100 words.
Our fourth was uneventful. We worked. We had dinner. We listened to the cannonade of the official, city-sanctioned fireworks off India Point. And then, until long after midnight, we listened to the barrage of to-it-yourself idiots trying to blow up Federal Hill and the Armory. The cats spent hours hiding under the bed.
It's been a while since I've seen a film as unexpectedly delightful as Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead's Spring (2015), which we watched last night. I went into knowing pretty much nothing except that it had an 89% rating at Rotten Tomatoes and was some blend of sf and horror and love story. And I'm not giving any details here, because I don't want to spoil it (this is why they're called "spoilers") for anyone. Just see it. Right now the film is streaming on Amazon Prime. I think I'm actually ranking it above Ex Machina as my favorite sf/f/h film of 2015 thus far.