I have no idea why I'm still keeping this blog. It became important to my writing career, but I don't know that it is anymore. Once upon a time, readers turned to blogs. Then again, before that, once upon a time we knew very little about the lives and day-to-day minutiae of any given author. The world was not a suffocating "cloud" – literally, figuratively – of tweets, Facebook status updates, blog entries, etc. That shit simply did not exist. A decade and a half ago. Which seems, usually, like yesterday. Most days, I tell myself that I'm keeping this public online journal (fifteen years ago, a revolutionary idea, now old hat and perhaps obsolete) for my own benefit. My memory is bad and getting worse, so, I write things down here, and in ten years I can come back and remember. Which is what journals are. Mnemonic arks. Here are the events of This Day, two by two. Everything I didn't write down here drowned.
Yesterday, I posted Vincent Chong's wonderful cover for The Ape's Wife and Other Stories to Facebook, and now I will post it here. Oh, also, the book will be released in July:
If you have not already ordered the collection, please do.
On Saturday, I wrote 1,660 words on Chapter Five of Red Delicious. Sunday, I wrote nothing. It just didn't happen. I signed a very large stack of eBay books. That evening, Geoffrey (readingthedark) visited and stayed until after midnight, our first visitor here since early December – four months; how does that even happen to people? Yesterday was swallowed, unexpectedly, by work on Alabaster: Boxcar Tales, so no work was done on Red Delicious, and no writing was done on anything. Today, I have to try to get back to the place where I left off with the story on Saturday.
There were such astounding dreams this morning. But all that remains of them is glitter and confetti.
We Really Are Ants Now,