I don't think there's much else worth saying about yesterday. I did not get back to work on the screenplay. The editing left me too tired for more than a short walk, and still I was awake until after three a.m. I know people who draw a distinction between physical and mental exhaustion, but for me they seem to be one and the same. My mind wears this blasted meatsuit to a frazzle. I saw something just now, a new study concluding that insomnia increases the risk of heart attack. I will not point out that a conflicting study a few months back found that insomniacs live longer. The way I feel right now, a heart attack doesn't sound so bad.
And I see I have not had a day off since September 9th, which was...fifteen days ago.
Ah, but I did get a nice email from John Glover, which contained this interesting bit about "Little Conversations":
"Little Conversations" was a completely different kind of pleasure. As you've said, it's "blatantly autobiographical," which is refreshing. Often fantasy authors put their own life through so many filters before it winds up on the page, it might as well not be there. It's nice to read something less filtered. It leaves me a little uncomfortable commenting on the story, as if I were commenting on your life, but if all good fiction's ultimately autobiographical, I guess that's the name of the game.
If you have not yet read "The Ape's Wife," you may find it here.
And now, the platypus will have herhisits way with me. To paraphrase Ms Woolf, "a woman must have stimulants and a platypus of her own if she is to write fiction."