It occurs to me, as it often does, that I don't know many other writers who do this whole writer thing the way that I do it. I rarely attend conventions and book expos and such these days (who can afford it?) and have very little contact with other writers, except by phone and e-mail. I don't do workshops or anything of the sort. I do not dwell on "craft." I just write. That's it. I just write. I get up in the morning, and if it's a good day, well, then I write. I don't write about writing or about books the way that many writers I know do. I simply have no interest in doing so. I just write. I don't know what, if anything, this might mean. But sometimes it seems strange to me. Like all the other writers with whom I'm friends or with whom I'm acquainted are part of some club that I dropped out of years ago. And now, well, I just write.
This morning, near the end of the dreams, I was on a pier, or something like a pier, at the edge of a great body of brackish water, some sort of back-barrier lagoonal sort of thing. I could see the beach and the sea on my right, beyond a line of trees and underbrush growing on the barrier islands. There were a number of old pilings sticking up from the lagoon. And in the sky there was an enormous blue-grey bird. Enormous. Something as big, perhaps, as the azhdarchid pterosaur Quetzalcoatlus. Huge. And I realized it was some sort of giant egret, soaring overhead. And then I thought of Poppy, that I wished she were there to see it. That she would truly appreciate this great bird. It landed on one of the pilings. And I realised, then, that there was a second giant bird, also perched on a piling. I hadn't noticed it before. It was much nearer to me than the egret, and it looked more like a stork than anything else. A Marabou Stork, only many times larger. It turned its head and looked at me. Its eyes were surprisingly intelligent, and it looked angry. At this point, I was afraid of the two birds for the first time. Then the egret spread its wings and took off again, flapping away towards the sea. And I thought, Good. Now Poppy will see it.
"Pink Houses II: Invasion of the Ho Bags" was definitely the high point of yesterday. At least in terms of weird. Byron came over about six thirty. I'd accidentally taken two of something I should only have taken one of, so I was a little goofy. We went to The Vortex at L5P for dinner. Then we came back to the house and watched the "new" ep of Doctor Who, "Bad Wolf," which I thought was really particularly exquisite. I'm so going to miss Christopher Eccleston. Afterwards, Byron hung around awhile, and we talked, and slowly my head cleared. When he'd gone, Spooky and I watched The Day of the Triffids, an all-time favourite of mine, and that got me sleepy enough for bed. And that, kiddos, was yesterday.
I'm 89% certain that I'm going to have my hair dreadlocked in June.
Okay. I should have breakfast and coffee and wake up the platypus. Oh, and Tony Curtis turned 81 today.