December 31st, 2017

Bowie3

"Seven thousand years to sleep away the pain."

Snow much of yesterday and into the night, a fine, dry snow, and I think it amounted to not much more than an inch, on top of whatever we had. When I woke, it was 7˚F, with the windchill at -4˚F. Currently, it's sunny and 13˚F, with the windchill -2˚F. There is a fine lacework of frost on most of the windows.

I wrote yesterday, but nothing worth saving. I have the first half of the book mapped out in my head, and a tiny bit on paper, but I've hit that stage-fright, performance-anxiety wall again. Today, I have to climb over it. I'm tired of waking up in the small, pre-dawn hours to fret over the progress that is not being made on The Tindalos Asset. There is no audience, and no one will ever read this book, and no one gives a shit, and I just have to write, and that is freedom.

As for 2017, it will not be missed. It was another wicked year, to be forgotten. But I wrote three stories I'm not ashamed of, at least there's that – "Tupelo (1998)," "Fairy Tale of Wood Street," and "The Dinosaur Tourist."

Last night, we watched the first half of Band of Brothers (2001), which I'd managed never to see. It's excellent.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast




3:45 p.m.