Yesterday I wrote a fairly impressive 1,413 words on "Bradbury Weather," and that was after I'd rewritten much of what I wrote on Wednesday. It was a day when the words just kept coming. If only I could have four or five of those days every week. I was still writing at nine o'clock p.m., working on the interview for Bookslut.com, and Spooky and Jennifer told me to stop. Also yesterday, I talked to Neil about what Delirium's charm should be (the rest have been easy to figure out), talked with Storm Constantine about magick, forgot to call Harlan Ellison, and e-mailed Voltaire (he's asked me to be a guest writer on an upcoming issue of Deady: The Malevolent Teddy, and how could I refuse?). I also worked with the Fiddler's Green people, making mine and Spooky's travel arrangements for November. Oh, and I stole music off the internet. But there's a bunch of dren I didn't get done, because so much time was spent writing. We didn't get more stuff up on eBay. I didn't exercise. I didn't write to Sa'jathan, who is "rediscovering" the Nebari language and has created a beatuful Nebari font and whom I really do owe a letter this very frelling day. A few other important e-mails weren't sent. But I did write, and (repeat after me) the writing is all that matters.
Well, writing and cheesy popcorn.
And free porn.
As to yesterday's post, I am now aware that it never showed up for those of you who read it via your LJ friend's lists. Apologies. I think I know why. Blame the redesign. I meant to preview, accidentally posted an unedited version (they've moved buttons), deleted it, and and then reposted after editing. I think that's what did it. So, again, apologies. If you still haven't seen yesterday's post, follow this link.
Right now, it's all I can do not to fuck off to a matinee to see The Forgotten. But that would be bad. Bad is easy, good is hard. Only that which is hard is worthwhile (I know these are lies, but bear with me).
Speaking of Neil, he recently wrote in his own blog, in reference to this whole sordid Anne Rice/Amazon.com/Blood Canticle kerfuffle:
I suspect that most authors don't really want criticism, not even constructive criticism. They want straight-out, unabashed, unashamed, fulsome, informed, naked praise, arriving by the shipload every fifteen minutes or so.
Well, duh. Of course, I think this is one of those things that people aren't supposed to know about writers. We're supposed to take to negative criticism like ducks to water. We're supposed to have thick skins and be impartial about our work and not go all insanely bugfuck homicidal when some anonymous webcretin takes a steaming piss on one of our children. I know that's how you like to imagine we are. It's noble and dignified. However, I will confess, if we could somehow quantify praise and scorn, a hundred glowing reviews would do less good than the damage inflicted by one bad review. Naked praise, I say. That's all I need. I promise, I am my own worst critic. The rest of you should only concern yourselves with expositions on my genius. Nonetheless, and with all due respect, someone obviously needs to tell Anne Rice that Lestat de Lioncourt is a fictional character. I think she may have forgotten.
If you haven't already, check out the current eBay auctions, which are making it possible for Spooky to accompany me to Minneapolis in November for Fiddler's Green. My supply of Murder of Angels is going fast. And, today only, I'm offering the The Five of Cups, both the lettered and numbered editions, with free shipping if you use Buy-It-Now, which is essentially the same as offering it for $5 off. Please, be generous and take advantage of my generosity.
I should go now. Bye.
P.S. -- It does one no good to get up at 9 a.m., after playing Morrowind until 2 a.m., if one is then too asleep to make sense until 11 a.m. Do the math.