Last night, just before bed, I wrote down, "The black-red storm passed, as it always eventually does, and I can think again. I regain some measure of perspective, and I can breathe again." And I'm still better this afternoon, which is a relief. There was a time I didn't share my bipolar bullshit with the whole damned world, and, really, it was a better time, for me and for the world.
Yesterday I finished with the box for Brown. The Twenty-first box, as twenty have proceeded it. I found my very first short story contract, the contract from Steve Rasnic Tem for "Between the Flatirons and the Deep Green Sea." I signed it on 7-30-93*, which I see was a Friday. I was living alone in a tiny apartment in Birmingham, on the side of Red Mountain**, along 16th Avenue South. The contract had gone to my old p.o. box in Homewood. I was paid $144, and that was my first income as a fiction writer. That contract is among the tens of thousands of pieces of paper I'm entrusting to the John Hay Library.
Today, I really do have to make some progress on Dear Sweet Filthy World, which seems to be the title of the collection. I keep waiting for it to become something else, instead.
* 8,295 days ago, or 22 years, 8 months, 16 days ago (excluding the end date).
** 33°29'30.91"N, 86°47'55.00"W.