Chilly, cloudy, rain and wind on its way. I just happened across a photograph I took from the front parlour one year ago yesterday. All was in bloom and the trees were going green along the street. I think, this year, we're at least two weeks behind that. It still looks like February out there. Maybe I'm dead, and this is my hell, a world forever poised at the beginning of spring, a perpetually unfulfilled promise.

Okay, that's starting to sound like Bad Goth Poetry.

But still.

Yesterday was, in theory, better than Thursday. I did some of the last tweaking to The Drowning Girl: A Memoir that's going to be done before I send it back to Penguin on Monday. Then I wait for the editorial letter, etc. and etc. Gods, this routine's gotten old. Anyway, I also sort of tore apart the beginning of "Fake Plastic Trees" and rewrote it. Spooky says it's better now. I don't generally rewrite or write in drafts, and it's unnerving when I do. When all was said and done, though hours were required, I had a net gain of only 248 words.


Nothing else to yesterday worth mentioning. I napped on the sofa for five or ten minutes, the best sleep of the last twenty-four hours. I read "A re-examination of Hauffiosaurus zanoni, a pliosauroid from the Toarcian (Early Jurassic) of Germany" in the new JVP. I missed a phone call from Harlan. That was yesterday.

Probably, I should stop now. This isn't going to get any better.