greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

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through the streets of glowing steel

Yesterday was an utter waste. An artist, of whatever stripe, has only so many days, to write or paint or dance or whatever, and each one wasted is that much that will never be accomplished. All Nine of the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing may lead an author to waste a day. The wasting of time is the end result of most transgressions. Yesterday, I courted both Sloth and Despair. Today, I have to try to do better.

Nothing new was written on Chapter Three, but I spent about two hours polishing the first vignette for Frog Toes and Tentacles. I can only hope that the readers who've asked for this are prepared for Weird Erotica. This will not be pretty-boy-on-pretty-boy action, or straight-up het sex, or butch-femme domination — nothing even 1/100th so vanilla. Indeed, I suspect only three or four of these pieces will actually have a sexual act included. Working on this now, I've realized how painfully dull that would be, how repetitive. "Oh, and now they screw!" Yawn. This whole endevour has been complicated by my disdain for slang words used for genitalia, words which I tend to find ugly and unpoetic. They lie upon the ear like lumps of cooling puke. The Latin words are rarely any better. So, a rock and a hard place, not to put too fine a point on it. We shall see.

Having managed to rid myself of hundreds of books in the last move, I have been inspired to at least attempt to further winnow away at these largely ignored stacks. A great percentage of them are nothing but a stone about my neck. I may even go so far as to get rid of at least half the action figures, which I've managed to cease buying entirely. I'll keep a few — all my dinos, the Farscape stuff, a couple of the Sleepy Hollow pieces, the Where the Wild Things Are figs, maybe Lara Croft in her scuba gear, but the rest, I think, will go. Even pretty clutter is still clutter.

Last night, distracted, disgusted with myself, I seemed able to concentrate only on bits of things. The last hour of The Day of the Jackal. The first forty-five minutes of Grand Prix. The middle hour or so of The Fellowship of the Ring. Reading was out of the question. I did speak briefly with Peter Straub, about 9:30 or so, but that really only made me miss the company of other writers.

The weather is still dreary. The high's supposed to be 65F tomorrow, but with rain, and then more cold to follow. But the Narcissus are blooming in our yard. This I should take as a sign of hope. The winter is dying, like a rotten old whore. I should go out and dance on her agonies.
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