I spent part of today proofreading "Cherry Street Tango, Sweatbox Waltz" for a Subterranean Press anthology (not sure I'm supposed to say which yet). It was actually written in July of 2018, right after we moved, for a Joyce Carol Oates-edited anthology of noir stories. But when she asked after reading it for me to explain the plot to her, I politely withdrew the story. It's not that JCO didn't say a lot of nice things about the story; she did. But...like I said, she asked me to tell her what had happened in it. And I replied, "If I set about trying to clarify what wasn't, from the start, meant to be clear, I'd wind up with something that is less than my best work, and I know that from experience."
Anyway, when I picked the story up today to read it for the first time since in about a year and a half I was very afraid I'd find that JCO was correct in objecting to the story's enigmatic nature. And so I was greatly relieved to discover that I still like "Cherry Street Tango, Sweatbox Waltz" as much as the day I finished it, before she read it. So, that was work today. That and about ten pounds of email.
Tonight, we finally saw Jay Roach's Bombshell (2019). I was fairly certain that I'd love it, and I did.
(10:07 a.m. yesterday, before we lost the sun)