Yesterday, I'm pretty sure I managed to wrangle this that thing I began on Friday into something that will actually become a story. I did 1,089 words yesterday. Last November, during the first part of the dry spell, I tried without success to write a piece titled "Build Your Houses With Their Backs To the Sea," but it stalled out soon after the opening scene. I'm recycling that title for this new story. I have borrowed it, by the way, from an October 25, 1963 episode of Route 66.
I had some strange dream this morning about meeting Tom Waits at Neil's place in Woodstock. I gave Tom Waits a pretty silver revolver as a gift.
Yesterday, wow. Quite certainly the worst day for the Republican Party since 1974 and Watergate. It couldn't have happened to a more deserving bunch of mooks. Kathryn and I may not have to move to Montréal, after all.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thanks.
Spooky put six chicken legs in the crockpot, along with red potatoes, pearl onions, carrots, apples, mushrooms, and all manner of herbs. Spooky cooks a mean six-legged chicken. After dinner, we played GW2, and then later I read more of Ellen Datlow's Children of Lovecraft, two fine tales – "Jules and Richard" by David Nickle and "Nesters" by Siobhan Carroll.