The sun is back. The temperature, though, is a chilly 53˚F.

Manhattan is so much warmer than Providence.

I spent yesterday trying to find the vignette I need to write for Sirenia Digest #123, which I know has something to do with mummification and might be set in HPL's Dream Lands (I know I said I wasn't writing anymore Lovecraft stories, but what the hell.), but that's about all I know.

Right now, I'm trying to put the failures and disappointments and bafflement of 2013, 2014, and 2015 behind me. I have a novel to write, and, truth be told, this is really my first novel since The Drowning Girl. Next year I have two short-story collections coming out (unless Mythos Tales is released late in 2016). And that's what I have to focus on. Fuck the past three years.

Fuck the omnipresent chill.

If I can't fix it, there's no sense dwelling on it.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast

Postscript: Despite the cold, an ice-cream truck is toodling along our street. But at least they're playing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."