There's inexplicability in that second sentence. Well, in its relationship to the first.
A couple of years before I left Atlanta, when I was still only talking about moving to Rhode Island, grandmofhelsing declared (it was a declaration) that I would not be able to endure a single winter. But the first winter was fine. And while I've come to a point where I don't much care for the winters (though the snow is nice), it's the so-called "summers" that are becoming unbearable.
Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart will be shipping this week. In fact (don't quote me), but some may already have shipped. It you haven't bought a copy, please do.
Have I thanked Peter and Susan Straub for the two beautiful little tins of absinthe-flavored candies from the Milwaukee Art Museum? If not, I am doing so now.
I've written nothing in five days. I can't even find a rubber band.
Have I no one to blame but myself? I think the sun is a flower, That blooms for just one hour.
And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus all their lives, and they had only been two years old when last the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and heat of it and the way it really was. But Margot remembered.
But aren't I the one who locked myself in this closet?
I fell asleep last night to the sound of Ray Bradbury's voice, reading The Martian Chronicles. That was the only thing about yesterday I wish to remember.*
Her Own Worst,
*I maintain that authors are the only people qualified to read their work; no one else knows the intended sound of the texts. This is why I hate the audio versions of my own novels, and have stopped selling podcast rights.