Yesterday, the ARCs for Blood Oranges arrived. Which is weird, seeing them. Especially since they don't include some fairly major changes (of the more minor sort) that I made to the galleys. Which is annoying. Almost angrifying. Anyway, still, yeah...weird. Once again, here is this book. By my hand and all. We are going to auction one of the ARCs this week. So, interested parties stay tuned, keep watching the skies. Speaking of, Spooky says if you've recently won an auction, but haven't received your goodies, please email her at dreamingsquid(at)gmail(dot)com. Things have been hectic. Forgetfulness abounds.
Selwyn is losing his baby teeth. Kitten teeth? Fuck, this is so much easier when you just talk like a scientist. Selwyn is losing his deciduous teeth (mammals with teeth tend to do that). Spooky found one of his lower canines on the rug in the middle parlor a few days back. She labeled it, put it in a stoppered vial, and I placed it in one of the display cases. The vial is 3.8 cm tall:
I've not been getting a lot of work done, the last week or so. I can't say why. Not for sure. Many causes are suspected. But all that matters is that I get my ass in gear and restore the usual insane rate of productivity, fecundity, prolificness, grab your thesaurus and dasado. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I wrote the fifth "chapter" of Albaster: Boxcar Tales. This month, I wrote two chapters (and rewrote one) of Fay Grimmer, but I should have written five. I've written a thousand words on the chapbook that will accompany my next short-story collection. Um, that was on Monday that I did that. Might not sound like I'm getting nothing done. But I have only five weeks to finish...a lot. Far more than I've been getting done.
The tree outside my office window, which is kindly, and always waits as long as it can to change on me and shed its leaves, overnight it began to go from green to the color of yellow apples.
I saw my psychiatrist last night. Sounds like the first line of a Bob Dylan song. But, that's what I did. She's good. She sees me late, when it's easier for me to go Outside. My emotional state the last few weeks has flatlined, which places me in danger of going off my meds. I can't write when I am not feeling. No passion, no words. So, we're reducing the Lamictal by 50 mg/day, and hoping that will help. Oh, the fine line between "less crazy" and "less less crazy," between "functional" and "not so functional." Her office – my doctor's – is filled, appropriately, with reminders of the sea.
Spooky and I are trying The Secret World, and pretty much loving it.
And I ought go. I gotta try to work. My thanks to everyone who voted in the poll last night. I can't guarantee 100% that I can do this thing. It'll hurt if I do. But, when I'm writing – and fuck you if you think this sounds like bullshit – pain is almost always the motivator. Without it, I write crap.