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And then there are these points along the continuum, when It All comes tumbling down on me at once. Or, at least, that's the way it seems. I'm literally in the middle of proofreading the galleys for Murder of Angels, and my editor at Roc calls yesterday to tell me the ARCs (advance reading copies) for MoA are in a month early. This means that the list of reviewers I was supposed to have another month to put together needs to be in NYC yesterday. And I also have to go over "Waycross" again (there are always things that can be corrected), and then send it to Steve Jones for The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror #15, along with an updated biography and a paragraph about the writing of the story. And I need to contact my publicist about those ARCs and the list of reviewers. And call my NYC agent. And last night I get mock-ups for the cover of The Dry Salvages, and I need to get back to Bill Scahfer with my thoughts on those. And he also needs all the Dancy stories so far, so he can begin to get a feel for that project, the collection of Dancy Flammarion stories. And, really, all of these things need to be dealt with today, when I need to be reading chapters Seven and Eight of Murder of Angels, sans distractions and that nagging sense that I ought to be doing something else instead.

And I'm ever so slightly more depressed than usual, and I think it's the result of rereading Murder of Angels, and all I really want to do is go back to bed and hide in the twists and turns of my ridiculous nightmares.

So, all these things I have to try to do today and tonight. Poppy's coming into town tomorrow, to do a signing at OutWrite Books on Piedmont, and Spooky and I are picking her up at the airport. If I'm lucky, we'll actually have a little time to talk, just to catch up. But I'm not feeling particularly lucky. Regardless, no work will get done tomorrow.

Everything, all at once.

And, on top of that, circumstances beyond my control are conspiring to make it highly desirable (if not actually necessary) to vacate Atlanta for the weekend, so I might lose Saturday and Sunday, as well. I'd planned to finish with MoA on Saturday and then take Sunday off, before beginning "Alabaster" on Monday.

And there hasn't been time to work on updates for Nebari.net or to put Llar'en's neat birthday-clock thingy up on my website or anything of that sort. Or, if there has been the time, there's been no energy or motivation to spare after the hours and hours of reading MoA. I managed to lie on the floor and watch television last night, when I'd have preferred to have been doing something slightly more constructive. I watched Monster Garage and three episodes of The Sopranos.

Blah, blah, blah.

These are not your problems.

I thought that my ruminations on blogs and privacy, or, rather, on blogs and exhibitionism/voyeurism, would provoke more commentary over at the greygirlbeast annex. We always want to believe that our insights are insightful, and that our eurekas aren't old news, even when they are. Or is that only me?

Time to put this thing to bed (too bad I can't go with it), and get on with this trainwreck of a day.


May. 11th, 2004 04:52 pm (UTC)
I have an old high school friend who used to maintain a very explicit journal for a while. She gave it up about a year ago because she was concerned about particular people reading it and knowing too much about her. Okay, that made sense. She switched to an infrequent e-mail journal, and all was fine.

Then she recently wrote about her dead babies.

She became pregnant a few months ago, got all excited, baby would be due at Christmas. Then she went to the doctor (I don't know which doctor; I'm a phallic-centered male, sometimes unfortunately), who informed her that she had dead twins in her womb. And that she would have to have them removed about a week later.

I read this while checking e-mail at work. Ever try getting through a day after reading about dead twins in someone's womb? It's not the most difficult thing that's ever been done, nor the most difficult thing I've ever done at work (that would be trying to hold a job while suffering an extended nervous breakdown 10 years ago), but it wasn't easy. I felt shell-shocked.

Our insights are rarely unique. There's 5 billion of us on this planet, with about 300 million of us raised in this country. There's only so many permutations of events and insights related to the events that can be experienced. What makes us unique is the methods that we use to express those insights, and the results of those methods.