No writing again or still or whatever. Bad day after bad day after bad day.
Yesterday gets extra points for effort, though.
It occurred to me, this morning, and not for anything like the first time, that there was this period back about 2008-2012, four years or so, when I was reading all sorts of fantasy and SF that I had no actual interest in reading. But these were the cool books, so maybe if I read them I could pass for relevant and intellectual and a real writer and on and on. All those lies. I mean, I actually suffered all the way through Susanna Clarke's Mr. Norrell and Jonathan Strange, a book so dull and overblown is deserves a place in the goddamn Tedium Hall of Fame. But there were dozens of these books, the books I read because isn't that what I was supposed to do? Isn't there something wrong with me if I'm not reading and enjoying those books? Yeah, well, anyway, I'm better now. I'm about to purge most of that stuff. Pack it up. Get rid of it.
Spooky and I took boxes of The Dinosaur Tourist and Dear Sweet Filthy word to storage this morning. It got me out of the house for half an hour.
There are the eBay auctions and Spooky's Etsy shop. Have look, and thanks.
11:27 a.m. (day before yesterday)