I am almost well, as is Spooky. That is, we've almost shaken off this illness, whatever it might have been. I'm not sure Dragon*Con was worth losing the last week, time I might have spent finishing "Bradbury Weather." I'm thinking that earlier plans to do local signings for Murder of Angels were a bad idea and will be discarded. One signing could result in another sick week, which is ridiculous. I will still be doing SpookyCon and Fiddler's Green, though I may do them in biohazard suits, especially given that, in both instances, I have to spend time on germy aeroplanes.
It seems unlikely any significant amount of writing will get done until after this move, which is alarming, as there is so much writing to do, and I've left off on "Bradbury Weather" halfway through. But I can't write in confusion. I just can't. I've tried, and it never happens.
I think I'd like to trade this life for my Morrowind life. Nar'eth the Dunmer has a nice little house in Balmora filled almost to overflowing with loot, and since she murdered the pillow lady, no one ever bothers her there. She never has to write a word. She has a snazzy green glass longsword, an Orcish helm, and a Dadric shield she took from a demon. No one messes with her and lives to tell about it. She has enough scrolls and potions to charm her way through Hell and back. She just made Level 16. She never has to worry about Publisher's Weekly or Amazon.com or the next book or the last book or money. If she needs money, she steals it. Nar'eth the Dunmer is blessedly free of morality and guilt and duty. Last night, Spooky and I went out at about ten o'clock for salad and slices at Fellini's. Afterwards, walking back to the car, I looked up at the night sky and was shocked that there were no aurorae, that I could not find Vvardenfell's familar constellations or its two moons. I actually felt an instant of genuine disorientation. Am I playing too much? Or have I merely recognized, with even greater conviction than before, the illusory nature of "reality"?