I can think of no more hideous act of self castigation than forcing oneself to write, or attend to all the nonsense that comes with being an author.
My fingers will bleed before I'm done.
I have a rough sketch from Vince, for "Shipwrecks Above." I think this will be a rather nice, if entirely brutal, issue of Sirenia Digest. Then again, I doubt there's anything as brutal as was last month's "Werewolf Smile."
Today will, in fact, be a day of loose threads.
There is almost nothing worth saying about yesterday. I spent most of the afternoon in bed, recovering from the Everlasting Migraine. I despise myself when they drive me to bed. I had a bath. I watched another irredeemable day slip past.