I've not had the stomach for this journal for the past week or so. The words are hardly coming. Yesterday, I finally unlocked enough to write about 740 words and finish the first section of Agents of Dreamland. In December 2012, I finished the first section of Black Helicopters in one day. I needed eight days for the first section of Agents of Dreamland, and that comparison says everything about where I'm at right now. And it's terrifying. Last May, I wrote "The Beginning of the Year Without a Summer," and with that story I began pulling out of a slump, probably caused by those silly fucking Quinn books. I wrote three more good short stories after that, and then, last September, I had to set everything aside to write Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird, which, truthfully, I didn't want to do. I lost about five months to the comic, and when it was over I was exhausted.
Right now, I can't hear the music, and it's the scariest thing in the world.
Thursday and Friday, I started and finished Nic Pizzolatto's Galveston (2010). Fucking excellent novel, a hard dose of East Texas/Louisiana noir, 1987 and 2008. I've started his collection, Between Here and the Yellow Sea: Stories (2006).
One of my few "rules" for writers: Do not make characters say dumb-ass shit just to forward the story or provide exposition.
Dear audiobook narrators: The word is pronounced "kŭdzū," not "kūdū." First syllable as in "cud," "mud, and "crud." I keep hearing this mispronounced, and as a Southerner, it drives me nuts (especially when the reader is faking a Southern accent).
Someone asks me questions about a story I wrote 1998, what I was thinking when I wrote it, and so forth, as if I can actually remember such a thing.
On February 5th, while staying in Neil's magical mystery cabin in the mountains, I dropped a fire poker on my left big toe. The toenail just - finally - came off. Today shall forever be Toenail Day.*