Spooky and I appear to have contracted some vile virus or bacterium, apparently at the Bellingham signing on Saturday. It hit me on Saturday night, and I spent most of Sunday on the chaise in the middle parlor. It hit Spooky yesterday, and we were both pretty miserable last night, and the misery lingers into today. Mostly aches, low fever, chills, and profound exhaustion. I've been so exhausted lately, I wasn't even sure I was sick until it got Spooky. Anyway, the worst of this is that (not only am I losing precious writing time) I may not make it to Manhattan for Wednesday night's reading at KGB. Which I've been looking forward to for the better part of a year. There's pretty much no place I'd rather do a reading. Anyway, if worse comes to worse, matociquala has kindly agreed to read in my stead, and, of course, Scott Lynch will also be reading. But, man, am I pissed.
Not much else to report. Well, except that no matter how big the wave of glowing reviews showered upon me by smart, articulate people – whether we're talking about The Drowning Girl or Alabaster: Wolves or anything else – one cretinous review written by someone whose reading/composition/comprehension skills would shame the least intelligible Australopithicus afarensis, and I'm thrown for a loop. Both of those books have been met with all but universal praise, and I still can't avoid this trap. Yes, it's ridiculous that I let the overwhelmingly positive be outweighed by the virtually nonexistent negative, but I've been this way since Silk.
Okay. I think I need to lie down again. Fuck you, microbes.