Oh, I did not write today. (rim shot, laugh track)
I also did not intend to succeed at "self isolating." But I have. Since October 9th, when I went about two miles from home for a doctor's appointment, I have been out of doors for ~5 minutes total. I shit you not. I think I have stepped out the door four times. Once I went to the bottom of the stairs. Mostly, someone from McWane brings me something to work on and I open the door to retrieve it (and put it in a quarantine box for a week). Before Covid-19, I was already halfway to Howard Hughes. This virus has pushed me into full on shut in. And for most of this time, I have been unable to write.
But between December 15th and 22nd, I wrote two vignettes for two issues of Sirenia Digest, my first successful attempts at fiction writing since April, and I was able to get two new issues out to subscribers, Nos. 178 and 179 (November and December). I was 7 months behind. Now I am only six. The plan is to produce, at the very least, two vignettes a month for two issues a month until I am caught up, six months from now. I am immensely grateful to everyone who has stuck with me. Thank you. I will make good on this.
Of course, there's a mountain of work not related to the digest, and I have to try and write that, too.
I had only one book actually released this year, The Tindalos Asset from Tor.com, though the coming reissues of Alabaster and the new Dancy collection Comes a Pale Rider will both carry 2020 publication dates.
I stepped outside today for about 30 seconds, as I was determined to breathe fresh air on this last day of this most evil year of my life. Yes, 2020, take a bow. You beat out 2005 and 1995 and 1992 and 1989. You win.
I wish for you all a happy and healthful New Year. Biden won. We will get through this nightmare. We have to. We have a civilization to repair.
Later Taters (No, really),
Round about 7 p.m. (Portrait of 2020)