For the occasion, here's an informative bit: Why Ireland Has No Snakes.
Last night, we watched Asif Kapadia's The Return (2006). I've sort of come to expect any film with Sarah Michelle Gellar to be more or less unwatchable, so I was very surprised to find that The Return is actually an intelligent and understated ghost story, well-acted, and completely free of overused images stolen from Japanese ghost cinema. It is a film blessed with subtlety, and Adam Sussman's screenplay leaves a great deal unresolved. No clunky exposition to be endured. At the end of The Return, almost as much mystery remains as at the beginning, the hallmark of successful weird/supernatural fiction. Give it a try.
I have begun Porges' biography of Edgar Rice Burroughs. It is an ungainly book to read, and I swear the thing weighs ten pounds, but at least there are many wonderful of photographs and document facsimiles.
Yesterday, the post brought the galleys of the Low Red Moon mmp, which I have to glance over, as well as photostats of Silk and Murder of Angels. I have to get Silk proofread by April 15th. I haven't read that book cover to cover since...I don't know. Maybe since sometime in early 1996, just after I finished writing it. More than a decade.
If only I did not find exercise so goddamn boring. I was always perfectly fine with getting my exercise as a by-product of some physically demanding undertaking that was actually interesting (fossil collecting, for example). This exercise for the sake of exercise crap, after ten or fifteen minutes my eyes are crossing from the boredom. But here I am at -02, and my screwed up fucking feet and the lifestyle that comes with being a writer are conspiring to render me soft and unhealthy. So, I'm trying. But it's not going so well. Because I bore easily, and nothing is more boring than exercise for the sake of exercise.