Today, a much tamer March begins. (though I yet struggle with the dregs of February). Still, I would call it forced, this march, as I certainly would not be doing it otherwise. But when the Forced March of January ended on the 31st, it had carried me within easyish sight of my goal. This is merely that part of the journey where the slopes of Mount Doom must finally be climbed, the part where the big ape scales the Empire State Building, where Roy Batty has to save that fool Deckard from tumbling off the Bradbury Building. Something like that. Someday, it will all make sense, maybe.
And just let me say that the day I am no longer permitted to write "self-indulgent" novels and short stories is the day when I shall cease writing altogether.
Some mornings, the blogging muscles just don't want to talk to the brain. This would be one of those mornings.
Last night, we watched Patrick Creadon's Wordplay, which I can honestly say was the most entertaining documentary about crossword-puzzle obsessed nerds I have ever seen. Then we watched Ace of Cakes, and then Spooky read aloud chapters 22-24 of The Terror, and then, still unable to sleep, I read Chapter 8 of In the Wake of Madness. The day was much too cold for walking, so I didn't leave the house.
There were some amusing comments day before yesterday to my remarks on the clunkiness of words relating to female genitalia. Let's review, shall we?
And
For some reason, snatch reminds me how "A Season of Broken Dolls," one of the pieces for Sirenia Digest, started life as a treatise on the vagina dentata concept, then went somewhere else entirely. Or maybe it only went full circle, and I'd see this, if only I looked over my shoulder...