January 8th, 2018


Howards Hughes and the Slow Thaw

Happy birthday, David Bowie, wherever you are.

Currently in Providence, it's 29˚F, and the windchill is 19˚F. It hasn't been this warm in more than a week. We're supposed to reach 34˚F, finally rising above freezing and ending this long, cold nightmare, at least for now, There may be some snow flurries today, but no new accumulation. What a horrible, horrible stretch of days this has been.

I tried, yesterday, to get back into the novella. I didn't. Finally, I switched gears and began putting together the ms. for my next short fiction collection, The Dinosaur Tourist. And since I hardly slept four hours last night and cannot hope to write prose today, I expect I'll finish compiling the ms. this afternoon. I need to get it done and proofed and off to SubPress. A couple of the stories, like "Blind Fish," are a little rough and need tidying up.

If you actually needed this trashy, tell-all book to show you how bad things are with Trump...well, never mind. But I won't be reading it; somehow, the reason he's president is tied up in why the book's so successful, America's love of train wrecks and finding entertainment in scandal.

Aunt Beast

3:03 p.m.