The weather. Well, it's sort of kind of warm enough that my office window's open. It's 70˚F out there. Fahrenheit. In late June. If the sun would come out, it might feel like 70˚.
There is no comfort in faith.
The heavens still will fall.
Yesterday was devoured by email and the telephone. My lit agent. My editor at Dark Horse. Stuff and more stuff, and there's a new set of interviews (which I stopped giving at the end of February, I think). But two days with no writing. Today, there won't be writing, either. Today, I attend to two of the interviews – two – then handle the final corrections to the typescript of Blood Oranges.
This is not writing. And, to apply a clichéd metaphor to my current schedule, it's a veritable bull in a china shop, all this not writing. And stress. And anger. And WHOA! Sunlight! Shit...it's gone again. See, this is why vampires in Rhode Island don't sparkle.
Yesterday evening, after getting all Jetsons and using to the iPad to watch a PBS American Experience documentary about the building of the Panamá Canal, I couldn't find the stylus. My fingers are too damn big to do anything with out the stylus (so are Spooky's), and I couldn't find it anywhere. An epic half-hour search ensued. I'd been lying on the chaise the whole time, there in the middle parlor, and there was simply nowhere it could have gone. It wasn't under me, and it wasn't beside me, or under any of the loose cushions. We rooted around in the cracks and came up with a Pentex® pen that must be kylecassidy's, a steak knife, titanic dust bunnies, and the missing pair of handcuffs. And then I found the stylus in my goddamn bra. Let this be a lesson to you.
A rhetorical question: What is the price of an author's integrity? Yeah, okay. Moral relativity applies. An author who makes boatloads of money, her or his integrity is more valuable than mine, but still. Mine must have a price. There must be a point where, finally, I say "No. That's enough. No more walking on my face. Go walk on someone else's face." Anyway, I think today I'm going to tell an editor (whom I love) to tell a publisher (whose name I cannot even recall) to fuck off. It occurs to me, I'm telling a lot of people to fuck off lately. Not metaphorically, but literally. "Fuck off." Twice now in a week. And not jokingly. It might be a good thing. But it might not be. We shall see.
So, the 24th is Spooky's birthday, and, I remind you again, she has a wish list at Amazon, and it's a good one.
While we are on the subject of birthdays – and mobile devices – yesterday I returned a birthday present from a very old and dear friend. In fact, the friend who has been my friend longer than anyone else has been able to endure being my friend, ever since we met in high school back in 1977. Thirty-five years. Half of you weren't even born then. Some of you, your mothers weren't even born then. Anyway, apparently, the friend in question, she didn't know of my War Against Ebooks and the Kindle...and she sent me a very "nice" Kindle for my birthday, with a leather cover and everything. I felt so shitty about returning it, I waffled for the better part of a month. But there was no way I'd ever use the abomination. If I absolutely must read off a digital thingy, I have iBooks on the iPad (aka, Kermit). And no, I do not care whether or not that means I can read ebooks "formatted" for the Kindle. Anyway, she knows I love her more than dirt (and that's saying a lot), and now she also knows (as do you all), not to buy me a Kindle. Because I will not be converted, and I will not be swayed. This is, by the way, why Amazon wish lists are good. Fuck knows, little else about Amazon is good.