Yesterday, I wrote the first half of Chapter 7 of Alabaster: Boxcar Tales (which is being serialized monthly in Dark Horse Presents). This is an especially difficult script. Very especially. I expect to finish it today. Late, after dinner and Rift, I tried to finish going over the CEM for The Ape's Wife and Others and Black Helicopters, but grew too groggy (alliteration!) to finish with the latter. I'm really very pleased with Black Helicopters, except that it becomes ever more clear to me it ought to have been a short novel, not a novella (if there is actually any difference between those two things).
Gods, why to I keep this journal? Sometimes, I honestly do not know. Eleven years, three months, and spare change.
We've had Hubero for almost seven years. And seven rhymes with eleven. Herb Ellis and Joe Pass' Seven, Come Eleven, but you really have to go back to Benny Goodman and Charlie Christian, but it all goes back to a lucky craps roll, because if a seven or eleven rolls, automatic win.
My brain is a psychoactive pharmaceutical wonderland. With unicorns.
Maybe I should stop now, before someone loses an eye.