I woke this morning at a few minutes past five. After having gone to sleep about two a.m.. And I did not get back to sleep. I awoke wide awake, my mind working at some problem in some story. Ambien didn't even put me back to sleep. I sat at my desk and watched the sun rise. I edited some paleontology articles on Wikipedia. I talked to Hubero. So, three hours sleep. And with this schedule there can be no missed days, no sick days, no days off, no lost days. This keeps up and there will be another trip to the doctor, which I can neither afford nor tolerate. Whatever shade of insomnia this is, I don't know. Sometimes I think on the dreams and consider clinophobia, but that doesn't explain these awakenings. Anyway, I've been up for six and a half hours now (as of 11:31 a.m.) and the day has not even begun.
Yesterday I wrote 1,658 words.
There was good news from my editor at Penguin, that Daughter of Hounds debuted at #21 on the Barnes & Noble science fiction/fantasy trade list. So someone's buying it, somewhere.
What else was there to yesterday? I would say there was nothing else at all, only, lately, I've had more than one reader of this journal tell me they like the minutiae, that it's the little things, elevate the mundane, and so on and so forth, as they say. So, from that perspective: the weather finally turned cold, and I left the house near sunset, but the wind was bitter, and my walk lasted less than a block. After dinner, I watched an episode of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, then there was another ep, and I tried not to doze. I read "Onion" aloud to Kathryn (this will be explained at some future date). There was hot cocoa.
After the aborted walk we went to the B&N on Moreland to see how many copies of Daughter of Hounds and the Threshold mmp they had on the shelves. I looked at the 2006 Year's Best Fantasy and Horror (Vol. 19) for the first time. I'd not known that Kelly, Ellen, and Gavin had said such nice things about To Charles Fort, With Love. I also did know that "Bradbury Weather," "La Peau Verte," and "From Cabinet 34, Drawer 6" had all received honourable mentions. We browsed about the bookstore a bit, which I hardly ever do these days — browse through bookstores.
We finished reading Gregory Maguire's Lost last night, and I am pleased to say that it won me over in the last 75 pp. or so, and I wound up finding it quite effective. I think perhaps I came to the novel asking it to be something it was not, possibly the least fair treatment any novel may receive. A book may only be judged for what it is, not what you'd like it to be. Next we read The Prestige by Christopher Priest.
My thanks to setsuled. I snurched the wonderful new icon from him.
A couple of things before I go forth and try to salvage this day:
'Irreversible' global warming claims its first victims of the New Year. Not so bad, if you aren't bothered by the loss of Lake Qinghai and the death of hundreds of baby hedgehogs.
And at dawn and dusk you might want to keep an eye out for Comet McNaught (C/2006 P1), which is proving to be one of the brightest of the last one hundred years.
I will not go back to bed...