It ain't much, but what the frell. With only 11 days, 12 hours, 13 minutes, and 39 seconds to go, I'll take whatever I can get.
(An interruption here, because Sissy called about my website, and then Spooky came in with some huge ass piece of furniture that a neighbor was throwing out, and now I have to convince her we should throw it out.)
Yesterday, we only managed to make it through Chapter Eight of Murder of Angels, before I discovered that I just couldn't take any more of the book, that I needed more time away from it. And that means that we have to get the final 79 pp. done today (in the next six hours, to be precise). Gods, I'm frelling sick of proofreading. It's bad enough, having to write a book, but then to be dragged back over it again, and again, and again, in this futile struggle to make it perfect. It will never be perfect. It's filled with flaws and warts and contradictions, and it's maddening to know that that's the best I can do. That this warped child is the best I can spawn. The fruit never falls far from the tree, blah, blah, blah, frelling blah. Maybe the next book will be My Perfect Book, and the whole world will be awed, and I'll never have to write another. Yeah, sure, and maybe Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny will get together and bring me a new cybernetic body, complete with my own temporal displacement field. One's at least as likely as the other.
Actually, no. That's no true. My money's on Santa and the rabbit.
Last night, I started reading William Gibson's Alien 3 screenplay. I love David Fincher's film, but Gibson's screenplay is a fascinating look at a direction the story could have gone instead. Later, I staved off sleep with Kya: Dark Legacy, which is sort like Primal for ten year olds. But it's very, very playable, with an extremely low frustration threshold (all important, at the moment).
It's already 12:28. I have to go face the pages...