I awoke to the news that Alan Rickman has died. The past few weeks have not been kind to celebrity. First Lemmy, then Natalie Cole. Then David Bowie. And now, Alan Rickman.
Yesterday, I put together Sirenia Digest #119, and as soon as I get the PDF back, it'll go out to subscribers. Then I tidied up "The Cripple and the Starfish" for a "year's best" reprint. It had some problems, which I hope I have corrected. I can only hope that 2016 is kinder to my writing than was 2015. I hardly wrote anything that I'm happy with.
And Issue No. 2 of Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird came out, and I honestly had no idea until sometime last night.
I have a call from my agent at 3 p.m.
I have no comment about Mad Max: Fury Road receiving ten Oscar nominations. Oh, wait. Yes, I do: That's got to be a joke, right, because...what the ever-loving fuck? Seriously?
Anyway, it occurs to me that I really don't anything much to say today. Given that blog readership has plummeted so precipitously, there's not much incentive to try. Fuck you, Tumblr and Facebook, Twitter and Imgur. LJ and Blogger, they were at least potentially literate things. Oh, I will say that I'm delighted to hear the news of Twitter going to 10k characters. Those kvetching about how this will "destroy" Twitter, as if it were something we should mind the destruction of, well, they do not have my sympathies.