Yesterday was spent polishing the new "Yellow House" story for Sirenia Digest #17, which now has a title, "In the Crimson Court of the Grey Lady." Total word count, after polishes, 7,320 words. We read through the story from start to finish for the first time. And then I tweaked and snipped and polished. Sometime after seven I stopped so that we could have a walk (Candler Park), and then I came back to it after dinner. Finally, I had to remind myself what Toni Morrison said, that all art is knowing when to stop. I hope people like this one, as it did not come with anything like ease. Sirenia Digest #17 will also include a new sf story by Sonya Taafe (sovay). This morning, I have to send my story to Vince so he can start on the illustration.
Apparently, someone told Locus that I'd sold an sf collection to Subterranean Press, as I learned yesterday from Bill Schafer that the announcement appeared in the magazine a few issues back. Setting the record straight, Bill and I have long been planning for me to do a collection of sf short stories for subpress. I have promised it to him, and it will likely happen in 2008, but it has not happened yet. No deal has been made, no contracts signed, no book sold. Bill and I had a long and pleasant talk, mostly about The Dinosaurs of Mars. Note that there will be a third (and perhaps final) erotica collection sometime next year. It is my decision that it will likely be the last of these pretty little books. If I keep this up too long, the whole thing will lose its appeal for me. And three is a good number.
I broke my glasses. The frame snapped at the nose piece while I was cleaning them. They're at least fifty years old, and the Bakelite has been outgasing, so it's no wonder. Right now, in true geek fashion, they are held together with a bit of Band-Aid.
Whoever's been working so diligently on my Wikipedia entry has stated that I have written "more than one hundred published short stories, novellas, and vignettes." At first I balked, because that number looked absurd. It could not possibly be correct. Then I started adding it all up, my short fiction since that first sale in the summer of 1993 ("Between the Flatirons and the Deep Green Sea"), and goddamn if the number doesn't exceed one hundred. I had no idea. It's sort of horrifying.
Last night, we watched Heroes, and I'm glad the series will be ending after another four or five episodes, because I have no idea what compels me to watch this exercise in bad science, melodrama, and mediocrity.* Then we watched Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), which I adore almost unconditionally, but had never seen with Spooky. Then I downloaded astronomical screensavers from NASA/JPL. Then I went to bed and finally finished Steven Bach's Final Cut. I think I got to sleep just after four. I managed to sleep until just before eleven, which seems like some sort of minor victory. Seven hours ain't so bad at all.
Anyway, I must stop this and get dressed. How I do dread this day. I'll take bossy platypi over shopping malls any day of the week.
* Sigh. I have just been informed, and rightly so, that Heroes has, indeed, been picked up for a second season. Someone should have told the tv announcer guy, because last night we quite clearly heard "final four episodes," not "final four episodes of the season." Ah, well. I'm only watching so far as the end of this season. It's already gone on too long.