A bad day yesterday. A day of talking through scary stuff. Which I may soon begin discussing here. I've kept it to myself – mostly – since 2012 or so, and maybe I'd benefit from putting it out there, with everything else.
In the Age of the Tyranny of Julian Assange, privacy is frowned upon.
Someone could put a bullet in that man's brain, and all I would do is feel relief. As with Osama bin Laden, there are times when political assassination is entirely justified, for the greater good and the general welfare and all that.
And here it is August. The summer is two-thirds gone, and green autumn is on our doorstep. More anxiety. And absolutely nothing has been checked off my summer to-do list. And I still need to (try and) write the new Natalie Beaumont story before the end of the month, and there's The Starkeeper, and there's the new novella I owe Centipede Press, because I sold Agents of Dreamland to Tor. And there's getting out Sirenia Digest #126 (July) and #127 (August).
The List has reached 1966.
And I just want to be home.