I awoke too soon, in a panic because I haven't made more progress on "Tupelo," and here is is already the 15th of the month. The first month of 2017 will be half over at noon today. I lost the first ten days to this crud that I'm still not 100% recovered from, and so far I'm only about 2,500 words into a story I imagine going to at least 8,000 words. That needs to be finished by the 21st or so. yesterday, I only managed only 431 words, and I have a feeling that none of them are keepers.
And I hate winter. I hate this cold and that sky and the grey landscape.
A few days back, I ran across this in my entry for January 12, 2014:
Yesterday, I spent about three hours reading over "The Prayer of Ninety Cats," which will be appearing in another forthcoming "year's best" anthology. It's a story I can look at and be proud of what I've done. It's one of, say, ten things that I've written that I know are well and truly very, very good. Decades of work went into creating that story.
I had no memory of having written that. But on November 9th of the same year I received the World Fantasy Award for "The Prayer of Ninety Cats," so I suppose maybe my judgment isn't so bad, after all.
Last night, we watched Beeban Kidron's To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar (1995), because Spooky had never seen it, and I likely had not seen in since about '97. It's a sweet little fairy tale. Pun intended. I'm sure the film is now somehow entirely politically incorrect. But the sight of RuPaul clothed in the Confederate flag as she descends into a ballroom of drag queens is an image for the ages.
My birth certificate might say I was born in 1964, but this morning I feel at least sixty-seven.
Widerstand, Frieden und Mitgefühl,