There wasn't much to yesterday, aside from finishing up with "Faces in Revolving Souls." We did the read-through. Spooky likes it a lot. And I'm happy with it, but I also know it should have been twice as long as it is. Someday, I expect I'll expand it to about 10K words. Maybe. That's the sort of thing I mean to do and it never gets done. Like finishing "Emptiness Spoke Eloquent." Good intentions.

Also, I learned from my editor at Penguin that the 58th volume of Authors and Artists for Young Adults will include an essay on my work. I have to send them a photo today, which means I have to find one of me that I like (one I like wherein I'm not in Nebari mode).

This morning, we're expecting the first-pass page proofs for Murder of Angels. Spooky and I have to finish with them and get them back to NYC by May 20th. Tequila should render the effort almost painless.

I think my comments yesterday morning about ridding myself of a sizable portion of my books elicited more response than anything I've written in this blog since I was wasting so much time mouthing of about Baby Bush's search for non-existent WOMDs in Iraq. Really, trust me, I'm not going to be throwing the books out. That's not what I meant. I wouldn't do that. They'll all be passed along to various friends and acquaintances, with a few going to used bookstores, and whatever's left going to Goodwill/Salvation Army/local public libraries. I do not throw books away. Also, while I very much appreciate the offers I've received from people willing to take them, the logistics of mailing so many books to so many people in so many different places would be far too time-consuming and expensive. But thank you, anyway. Now you can all stop worrying about my exiled books.

We finished with Season Three of The Sopranos last night. The show is brilliant, but, ultimately, I'm afraid it only serves to demonstrate how the medium of television, which really can deliver first-rate fiction, is generally wasted on the most purile crap. We'll watch Season Four next, and hopefully by the time we're done with that, Season Two of Six Feet Under will be available on DVD. After The Sopranos, I played Jak II until almost 3:30, having finally bested that frelling tank in the Baron's ammo dump and moved along to bigger things.

I got a very funny e-mail from my mother yesterday afternoon (yes, I really do have a mother), which I thought I'd pass along:

We made it back from Louisville yesterday afternoon. The only good thing I can say about the Kentucky Derby is that I picked the right horse to win. I bet $5 on Smarty Jones to win--and he did. I won $36. I was the only one in our group to bet on him.

The weather was horrible. I got caught in a press of people trying to get inside out of a thunderstorm and was almost squooshed and drowned. By the time I finally made it inside, the storm was over. Vann had gone to get a hot dog and was not so caught. There were 140,00 people there, I think. And 139,000 of them were drunk or crazy. There were people in all stages of dress and undress. The cops were filling paddy wagons as fast as they could bring them in. It was fun seeing all the different hats (women wear hats to Derby), but I'm not sure it was worth the physical stress to see them. Rating the experience, I'd have to say that I'd much prefer being bound hand and foot and staked to a fire-ant bed. I expected something much more sophisticated, I guess. What I got was a NASCAR crowd on mint juleps. I was sooooo happy to get home.

Tiddley pom.