Yesterday was entirely consumed by proofreading and making corrections to "Werewolf Smile" and "A Paleozoic Dreamquest" (the latter may get a new title). I hate days that involve hours of tedious copyediting.
Also, it has occurred to me that I should write a fictional autobiography. Sure, who the hell's ever going to make a film about my life? No one. But I'm sure that's what Diane Arbus must have thought, as well. And scores of others I can name. So, If I write my own fictional account, which shall be ever so much more interesting that the "facts," perhaps whichever future aspiring filmmaker finds himself obsessed with me will gravitate towards that, instead of all the dumb crap that really happened. All biographies, like all histories, are necessary fictions, anyway. I might as well make an engaging fiction. I'm actually quite serious about this. It comes back to issues of self determination. Perhaps I will use my various alter-egos: Nareth, Scheherazade, Algeria Touchshriek, etc., and anchor it to no one era, no one reality. And yes, I am in debted to Steven Shainberg and his wonderful film, Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus (2006), for this idea.
If you've not already, please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thanks. eBay will not be in the autobiography.
You know a day's going to be weird when you catch yourself making Pee-Wee Herman faces.