Yesterday I tried to write. That's what I do most days now. Most days, I try to write. And yesterday, like most days, I finally give up in frustration.
I finished reading Cassandra Khaw's Hammers on Bone, a decent enough Lovecraftian noir. I'm also reading Shirer's The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich for the first time since college, for reasons that ought to be obvious. Everything old is new again. I talked with Mordicai Knode at Tor.com about the tour. Katharine Duckett is on medical leave until January, and he's handling the planning until she comes back. We're adding a date in Westerly, RI, which will replace the planned Mystic, CT date. I talked with Jonathan Strahan and Paula Guran. I spent a massive amount of time on Twitter and Facebook and reading articles from The Washington Post, The New Yorker, The Atlantic, etc. Watching the beginning of the end, that's what it feels like, and it has done nothing to help the writing difficulties.
No, we're not leaving the country. At least not yet. But it is stingy sort of comfort that Montréal is a mere six hours away, if it does come to that. Of course, there's no running from nuclear apocalypse, is there?
Fuck, I have no idea what I was going to say.
Last night, we watched the Coen Bros.' Burn After Reading (2008), which might have been the first film that Kathryn and I saw at the Avon on Thayer Street after moving up here from the Atlanta (soon to be part of southeastern Trumpmenistan). And then we watched Harold Ramis' The Ice Harvest (2005), a neo-noir black comedy that somehow I'd not only never seen, but I somehow did not even know existed.