Yesterday, I wrote 1,210 words on "The Bed of Appetite," a new story for Sirenia Digest #23. Which was a great fucking relief after all those days of not writing anything much at all. And it occurred to me that while it's entirely unremarkable that I've had difficulty writing the last few months — in the wake of the long nightmare of the Beowulf novelization and the mountain of editing/reworking of older projects. No, what is remarkable is that, during this extended period when I've felt all but unable to write, I have in fact written "Outside the Gates of Eden," "The Ape's Wife," "The Steam Dancer," "In the Dreamtime of Lady Resurrection," "Anamnesis, or the Sleepless Nights of Léon Spilliaert," "Scene in the Museum (1896)," "Salammbö Redux" (née "Little Conversations"), "Untitled Grotesque," and "The Madam of the Narrow Houses." That's nine stories during what has felt like one of the most unproductive periods of my writing career. For that matter, I wrote over 15,000 words in The Dinosaurs of Mars before I shelved it in July.
And here's another reminder that Stiff Kitten T-shirts are now available from Ziraxia. I will point out, these shirts are silk screened, not those iron-on decal things like you get from Cafe Press, and that these are high-quality American Aparrel T-shirts.
While I was writing the above paragraph, Hubero precipitated a pet-related disaster of near-apocalyptic proportions, which has rather put a damper on me finishing this entry.
I'm not even sure what I was going to say next. Anyone want a slightly used Siamese/Tonkinese pyschopath?
Well, Byron came over last night, and first we watched a bunch of David Bowie videos, and then we watched Little Britain on BBCA, and then we watched Kill Bill Vol. 2, so at least last night was a good Friday night.