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Cold and sunny today. Currently, it's 33˚F, and the windchill is at 23˚F.

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.

Good morning.

And I hate winter. I hate this cold and that sky and the grey landscape.

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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.

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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,
Tante Bestie