I might have slept three hours last night. Apparently, I was only allowed the one night's good sleep.
Yesterday, I wrote "A is for Ambergris," and today I need to do B, C, and D. I need to finish proofing "Ex Libris" for a reprint. I need to write up some flap copy (yes, I do that for my own books) for Subterranean Press, so that they can announce Dear Sweet Filthy World.
Yesterday's talk with Josh Boone went very well.
Continuing out Hitchcock binge, we watched The Birds (1963) last night, which film critic David Thomson has called Hitchcock's "last unflawed film." It certainly is one of his strangest and most powerful, and it is, of course, his only foray into science fiction and the only time that the malign force in his films does not arise from humanity, which makes it very remarkable, indeed. As a child, the film terrified me, and it still leaves me tense. It's based on du Maurier's 1952 short story of the same name (an excellent story, by the way), just in case you didn't know. My complaints are very small, like the film inexplicably insisting that all those ravens are crows. It's not like ravens aren't common to Bodega Bay. It's not like ravens aren't scarier than crows. But Hitchcock makes up for that bit of oddness by having Mrs. Bundy correctly date Archaeopteryx in the diner scene. That's the sort of thing directors are always flubbing.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Something special is going up later today. Keep watching the skies.