The sky, all the sky, is the same oyster grey. The grey of a raw oyster. Winter weather is creeping towards us, though nothing spectacular. Just the miserable, nasty stuff. Only 38˚F at the moment.
Yesterday, I wrote 2,242 words on Fay Grimmer. This novel will be finished by Friday evening, even if I have to completely give up sleep between now and then. I also decided last night that the third book – Puppy Love – will not be written from Siobhan Quinn's POV (the first two are), but from a different narrator's POV. Also, it'll move the story out of Providence to Manhattan. Also, I don't have to actually start writing it until the late spring or early summer.
This ayem, I feel like an old tennis shoe after it has spent two weeks at the bottom of a pond, only to be dragged out into the blazing sun, chewed by a labrador retriever, run over with a lawnmower, and thrown under the wheels of a speeding train.
I'm also afraid I may have missed the beginning of Jethro Tull Season (a long winter celebration I invented in 2005) this year, and will have to do penance. Hold on. Yeah, fuck. It begins November 24th, so I'm now three days behind.
Where's my tequila! (I know of no connection between tequila and Jethro Tull. That was sort of random.)
Blah Blah Blah,