greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

  • Mood:
  • Music:

six measly hours of sleep later...

Oh gods, I feel useless.

How can I be sitting down to write another goddamn book? Didn't I just do that? And that one isn't even published yet? Hell, I don't even get to see how unpopular it'll be before I start the next one. That sort of takes all the fun out of the whole thing. I spent a great deal of yesterday making notes in longhand (I don't usually do much of that), and some of today, notes for this next novel. And, as I begin to see the scope of it, I wish I could have time to write it the way it needs to be written. Silk took me well over two years. That would be nice. I suspect that luxury is gone forever. But I kind of wish my publisher would think as much about promoting the books they've already published as they think about getting new ones. It doesn't matter how many books I write, or how good they are (or aren't, for that matter), unless there's some significant promotion behind them, and there's been damn little of that since Day One. Books are popular because they are promoted, they are not promoted because they are popular.

I don't even know what I'm trying to say.

I finally forced myself to tend to the big pile of paper on the office floor today, sheets like sedimentary deposits waiting to be filed. And I discovered that filing makes Spooky cranky. It just makes me bored and appalled at my packratty ways. Contracts, sales statements, short story drafts, a photograph of Gigi Edgley making a silly face, fan letters, more sales statements, e-mails I've printed out, doodles, empty envelopes, proofreading notes, etc. & etc. A small part of it went out to the dumpster, though, in truth most of it should have gone. But I'm weak and lack that sort of resolve. Fuck. I just remembered there's a pressing e-mail from my editor I haven't answered yet.

And I have to go to Birmingham tomorrow.

A receptionist at my doctor's office called a little while ago and asked for "Catalina Kerrnun." I just handed the phone to Spooky. She has as much business answering to "Catalina Kerrnun" as I do.

The first-pass page proofs of Murder of Angels went back to NYC yesterday, and the page proofs for "Mercury" went back to Subterranean Press.

I think my mood is too foul for blogging (that sounds naughty; a shame it isn't). I should leave you until such time as I'm less predisposed to mopery and grunting. Here are a couple of photos that Spooky took last night. Make of them what you will...

ink and coffee and tequila

go awaaaaay

  • And a day.

    The sun came back this morning, and not one day too soon. Our high was 78˚F. Today is the 108th anniversary of my Grandma Ramey's birth. When I was…

  • And now we are 58.

    Rain today. Rain all damn day. Our high was only 74˚F, which is chilly for my birthday, when my birthday occurs in Birmingham. But still, as…

  • " empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology."

    Rainy, but not a bad day. The sun showed it's face from time to time. The high was 78˚F, with the heat index at 80˚F. I was up at 7 a.m., and I…

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded