It's bloody frelling cold here, but at least the coffee has arrived. The good news, heating costs in Atlanta have dropped by 15% over last year. Still, I refuse to run the gas heat.
New Business: The writing went well yesterday. I did 1,078 words on "The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad #4)." I am, however, just shy of panic. Too many deadlines pressing in on me. None that I can cut loose. No sacrifices. Each thing is equally important. It's a bit terrifying.
The "story" behind The Dinosaurs of Mars continues to elude me.
I did get caught up on my e-mail, at least.
Last night, when I should have been reading, we watched David Slade's Hard Candy (2005), a remarkably tense and well-executed thriller. Little Red Riding Hood as 14-year-old vigilante. Superb. Unfortunately, we followed it with David Schmoeller's Crawlspace (1986), a film so insufferably dull that it made 80 minutes seem like three hours. Even my Klaus Kinski fetish couldn't redeem this one. At least it was showing on IFC, so it's not like we paid for the rental. It is hardly surprising that Schmoeller's career since Crawlspace has consisted almost entirely of churning out those ridiculous Puppet Master films (nine of them, according to imdb).
I did make it most of the way through Eric S. Rabkin's Mars: A Tour of the Human Imagination, and was especially taken with the section devoted to Evangelista Torricelli, who, in 1644, with a single experiment, discovered, that nature does not abhor a void, that vacuums do exist, and that air has weight. He also invented the barometer. Not bad for one experiment.
Okay. I'm stalling. Time to frelling write.