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December 17th, 2008

The Entry That Almost Wasn't

The sky is a deep grey-white, with the faintest hint of that shade of purple that I still know of as "periwinkle," because that's what it was called in my box of 100 Crayolas, when I was a kid. The old power pole outside my window looks like a driftwood crucifix. Most of the snow has melted. It didn't amount to much.

I'm trying to get back to work —— rotting, unpulled tooth or no. That first week of December, the week off during this two-month semi-vacation, it was wonderful. I think the most wonderful and unexpected thing about it was the way that time seemed to stretch. For that span of time, my days did not consist of getting out of bed, sitting down at the computer, having a meal somewhere in the day or night, and then wandering off to bed at 2:30 ayem. I got out of the house. Outside, even though it's not a place I'm generally comfortable being these days. I went as far north as the tip of Cape Cod, and as far south and west as New Haven, Connecticut. There was the ocean, the wreck of a 19th-Century schooner, Pleistocene clay, good movies, the dolls of Elizabeth King, dinosaurs, cities, dunes, small towns, forests, the grave of O.C. Marsh, Yale University, and the Peabody Museum of Natural History. The days were longer, seeming to expand to accommodate these experiences, and somehow spaced farther apart from one another than usual. And it's made getting back into the habit of this chair, this keyboard, this screen, and all the things that go along with writing, it's made that return to the normative state of my life difficult. But, at the beginning of January, I get another week that will be experience, not writing. It's something to look forward too, over the next two weeks.

Solstice is near. The days will grow longer.

It was almost impossible to work yesterday, but I worked. A little. Enough that I only felt guilty. Today I have to do a lot better. I have to find the first vignette for Sirenia Digest #37. I think it will be something wintry. And it occurs to me. It's very odd that I've never really written a story about a cat. They've always been such a part of my life, but, aside from an issue of The Dreaming ("The First Adventure of Miss Catterina Poe"), I've never much written about cats. Not on purpose. It's some weird blind spot in my fiction.

Here is a stack of books I want to read this winter, that I mean to read this winter: Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters, The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman, Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer, a collection of Nabokov, Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Lindqvist, and Moonchild by Aleister Crowley. I haven't started any of them. I give myself over to the easier distractions of the internet. I sit in this chair.

The days taste like Ambesol and ginger ale, coffee and dust.

And now it's time to make the doughnuts.

Thanks to everyone who's bid on the current eBay auctions. More items will be going up today.