Today, I should make myself sit here, should stare at the screen until the words finally drip from my mind. But I haven't left the house in eight days. Spooky says I need to get out. So, probably, I'll get out.
Was there anything else about yesterday worth mentioning? I spoke with Peter Straub via e-mail, and with Neil, and with Mike Everhart, a paleontologist at the Sternberg Museum of Natural History in Ft. Hays, Kansas. I spent about half an hour reading the lyrics to early REM songs, realizing again what an important influence the band has had on my writing, particularly all the pre-Out of Time albums. I read William Blake for a while, because, the last few years, Blake's poetry has often seen me through the rough spots. Hence, I have tentatively titled Chapter Three of Daughter of Hounds "NIght in the Land of Dreams." Last night, Spooky and I were in the mood for a certain sort of movie, so we watched The Velvet Goldmine and The Wall, which, we learned, make a pretty good double-bill. Oh, I made some more notes, this time in red ink.
It's so tempting to set the novel aside and write the short story that's in my head. That would be irresponsible.
Crap. It's almost noon-thirty. Four more minutes and it will be. I fear this thing called Outside, but Spooky says it's good for me. I'm not so sure. Too many unknown variables, I think. And what the hell is that bright thing in the sky?