They happen, sometimes.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,197 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars.
It wasn't a bad day, all in all. Just after dark, as we were getting ready to walk, thunderstorms rolled in, and it rained until after midnight, I think. Which was nice, even if we didn't get our walk. What's a little muscle atrophy in the age of automation? I lay on the sofa listening to the rain, smelling it through an open window, talking with Spooky. Nothing on earth is as comforting as the sound of a steady summer rain. All day, the cicadas screamed in the trees, the only creatures that seem to thrive in the heat. The birds are mostly silent throughout the day, emerging at sunset. I don't think I left the house yesterday. No, I didn't. I try not to let that happen these days.
Last night, there was more "comfort TV," first the second episode of Deadwood ("Deep Water") and more Firefly ("Serenity," parts 1 & 2). Earlier, I finally finished Jay Parini's John Steinbeck: A Life, which left me sort of sad and in ill-spirits. I recall, at some point, Poppy (
Regarding Sirenia Digest, yesterday
BTB, my jaw nearly hit the floor when I saw this issue alone was 42 freaking pages (give or take) of either exclusive or hard-to-find content. You don't need poison spurs to convince people that's a good deal.
I'm just trying to take care of my subscribers, whom I really do cherish. And my thanks to the newest subscriber,
Also, my thanks to Scott Connors and Ron Hilger for sending me The End of the Story: The Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, Volume I, which reached me yesterday. Another beautiful volume from Night Shade Books.
Right. Time to wrap this up. Mars awaits...