But. This is a day on which there will be no writing. Nor will there be the busyness of writing. I could take a hot bath, get drunk, and go back to bed. Except, we finished the Bailey's last night, and it's the frelling Xtian sabbath, so the goddamn liquor store's closed. I could switch over to absinthe. Or Grand Gala. Or that unopened bottle of Puerto Rican rum we've had for the last three years. But Spooky wants to go to Fernbank and see the Roman exhibit. I'd be a lot more enthusiastic if there were an interactive Roman orgy involved. Or at least a decent blood sacrifice to Minerva or Diana or someone interesting.
I'm not even trying to make sense.
Okay, but only for a microt. Pursuant to being done with Tales from the Woeful Platypus, yesterday we made it through "Untitled 17," "Pony," "Untitled 20," "pas-en-arrière," and "The Black Alphabet" (both halves). Then I fashioned it all into an actual manuscript. Well, an actual virtual manuscript. Spooky helped me settle on the final order of stories for the Table of Contents, which is as follows:
1. "Untitled 17"
3. "Forests of the Night"
4. "Daughter of Man, Mother of Wyrm"
5. "Untitled 20"
6. "Still Life"
8. "The Garden of Living Flowers"
9. (limited edition only) "Excerpt from Memoirs of a Martian Demirep"
I finished up about 7 p.m. and mailed it all away to Bill Schafer. And the platypus crawled off somewhere, mumbling about eyestrain. I haven't seen herhimit since.
I need a bath.
I need nine hours of dreamless, unbroken sleep.
Hubero says he's gonna drag that crazy gimp cockroach down to the briny deep. I assume he means the basement.