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Sunny and chilly here. Currently, the temperature is 43˚F, with the windchill at 35˚F.

Another productive day yesterday, despite the rain. I did 1,249 words on "Day After Tomorrow, the Flood."

Spooky made black-eyed peas for dinner, and we watched RuPaul's Drag Race. At this point, I think the crown is gonna go to either Eureka or Miss Cracker.

I slept for shit this morning, but you can't have it all.

Aunt Beast

10:09 p.m.

10:09 p.m.


Overcast and rainy here, the temperature at 40˚F, with a windchill of 35˚F.

Yesterday was the best day I've had in a while. I wrote 1,317 words on "Day After Tomorrow, the Flood." I went for a short (and chilly) walk, and saw that the willow tree in our neighborhood has turned green. Most everything else remains grey, but at least we have the willow. And I packed the first boxes I've packed for the move, three 20"x14"x10" boxes of DVDs (there's still a box to go). We got Bucktown for dinner, and later we watched a newish Showtime documentary, Ellen Goldfarb's New Wave: Dare to Be Different (2017). That was yesterday.

Time to make the doughnuts.

Aunt Beast

3:30 p.m.

3:33 p.m.


Mostly cloudy today, a little sun now and then, and currently it's 43, with at 36˚F. The little snow symbols are on the forecast map for Thursday.

Yesterday, as regards writing, was pretty much a replay of the last week, the same fruitless day on repeat.

If you haven't seen the Netflix Lost in Space reboot, you should. It's good.

Aunt Beast

10:57 a.m. (this morning)


It was sunny when I woke up, about 9 a.m., but clouds have moved in. We had heavy rain yesterday and even a little thunder. Currently, it's 49˚F, with the windchill at 43˚F.

Yesterday was another day spent searching for words and not finding them.

Aunt Beast

11:08 a.m. (this morning)


Rainy and 44˚F here, with the windchill at 38˚F. During breakfast, a thunderclap sent Selwyn scampering for cover, and I've not seen him since.

I did try to write yesterday. But I'd slept so poorly the night before, it was hard to focus, and instead I wound up doing some research for the story that I'm trying to writing. I reread "The Call of Cthulhu" (it had been a few years) and parts of the second volume of S.T. Joshi's I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H.P. Lovecraft. And a bunch of Wikipedia articles. That was yesterday.

Last night, we had leftover chili and watched more of the new Lost in Space. And then I slept poorly again, thanks to a headache.

Aunt Beast

11:31 p.m.


In point of fact, yesterday was not the fourteenth anniversary of this LiveJournal. Actually, that would be today. Too many things on my mind. So, let's try again. In fourteen years, I have made 5,326 entries, amounting to who knows how many millions of words. This will be entry number 5,327.

Here in Providence, it's 38˚F, windchill at 29˚F, and we're under a winter weather advisory. On April 15th.

I went out with Kathryn yesterday when she was running errands. I saw a single green tree on all the east side of the city, a sad, small blotch of green.

Last night, we watched the first two episodes of the Netflix Lost in Space reboot. I liked what I saw, especially the casting of Parker Posey as Dr. Smith. The original series has a special place in my heart, as it's one of the earliest things I remember watching on TV, back in the sixties when it was new.

Aunt Beast

1:24 p.m.


I have not fully recovered from the cold, which Kathryn caught from me, and she's also not recovered. The continuing bleakness of April in Rhode Island isn't helping. There is no sign of green out there. Yesterday, we were supposed to see 67˚F, but the temperature only rose to about 61, then suddenly plunged to 51˚F early in the afternoon and never made it back up past 54˚F. Currently, it's 58˚F. I doubt it will get much warmer today. At least we have the sun, devoid of warmth as it may be.

I need to get back to work.

Today is the fourteenth anniversary of this LiveJournal.* In fourteen years, I have made 5,325 entries, amounting to who knows how many millions of words. This will be entry number 5,326.

Last night, Spooky got dinner from Bucktown. She discovered they've added fried dill pickle slices to the menu and got an order of them.

I've not left the House since April 6th.

Aunt Beast

6:59 p.m.

* I have been blogging continuously since November 24, 2001, when I began a journal at Blogger.


We were promised a mostly sunny day, but there was a terrible wind last night, and I woke to an overcast sky and the likelihood of rain. We may reach 67˚F, but I doubt it'll feel like it's that warm. Currently, it's 61˚F. I have the window open a crack, and at least the air smells clean. I hope that after we move this obsession that I have developed with the weather will leave me.

Yesterday was a bad day. For now, I'll leave it at that. But an explanation will be forthcoming. Monday, at the latest. Maybe tomorrow.

In the spring of 2002, sixteen years ago, I was offered a pretty good paleontology job at the McWane Center in Birmingham, Alabama. I turned it down, thinking it would be financially irresponsible of me to accept it and focus less on writing (even though I wanted the job and didn't care if I ever published another book). Every now and then I am reminded how foolish I was, turning down that job. Yesterday was one of those days when reality rubs in just what a huge mistake I made. Part of my going back to Alabama is trying, in a small way, to correct this error, by being able to do paleontology again (though I will be working on my own very thin dime).

Last night, we saw the season premiere of The Expanse (very good) and I watched Good Fellas (1990) for the first time since some point in the nineties. It's still one of my favorite films ever.

Aunt Beast

9:04 p.m.


It's sunny and warmer than this time yesterday. Currently, it's 50˚F, and we should reach 56˚F, says the National Weather Service. Tomorrow, we're supposed to see 67˚F.

Yesterday, I began a new story for Sirenia Digest No. 148, and it's good to be working again. I'm calling the piece "Day After Tomorrow, the Flood." I did 1,245 words. I hope to have it finished by Saturday afternoon, so that I can get back to work on The Tindalos Asset, which has been languishing for some time now. I need to have it finished by early May.

But today, I have a doctor's appointment at 2:45 p.m., so no writing this afternoon. Oh, and I'm mostly over the dratted cold that's had me down since late last week.

But yesterday was a damn weird day. After not sleeping all night, I wrote those 1,245 words between about 6:30 and 8:00 a.m., and then I went back to bed and slept a few hours and got up at 11: a.m. Which made a mess of the rest of the day. Fortunately, I slept well last night.

Yesterday, I finished reading Larry McMurty's Leaving Cheyanne (1962), which I adored, and this morning I began reading Charles Portis' True Grit (1968).

I have photos from yesterday's sunrise.

Aunt Beast

6:33 a.m.

6:33 a.m.


And here it is 5:44 a.m., and the decongestant is keeping me awake. Sunrise is only about twenty-two minutes away. So, I'm going to try and get some writing done. That may work, and it may not, but it's better than lying in bed trying to sleep.

Currently, it's 29˚F here in Providence. Our high is forecast at 47˚F. Maybe I'll be asleep by then.

Last night, we watched the new episode of The Terror – which just keeps getting better – and the premiere episode of Season 14 of Deadliest Catch. And today's photograph, courtesy Spooky, features the handiwork of Lydia.

Aunt Beast

10:45 a.m. (yesterday)


Overcast and chilly here. Currently, it's 40˚F, with a windchill of 35˚F. But we are promised that warmer weather is on the way.

Night before last, I thought I'd beaten this bug. Then it doubled down and kicked my ass last night. I spent the evening choking on snot and running a fever. This morning, I am exhausted and not sure whether or not I'm better. This is what I get for going to the mall, immense petri dish that it is. Somehow, I slept about seven and a half hours, mostly propped upright on a mound of pillows.

Right now, I'm debating whether or not I'm going to try and get back to work today. Spooky's gone to the pharmacy.

In case you missed the announcement yesterday, Subterranean Press is now taking preorders for The Dinosaur Tourist.

Aunt Beast

11:38 p.m. (this morning)


Here in Providence, it's sunny and cold, currently 40˚F, with a windchill of 33˚F.

Subterranean Press is now taking preorders for The Dinosaur Tourist and the cover's been posted, with Ray Troll's marvelous depiction of the inhabitants of the Niobrara seaway.

If you haven't seen The Detectorists (BBC), you should. We finished the series last night, and it's really fantastic.

"Marvelous" and "fantastic" in one entry. You'd think I was in a good mood. I might be, if not for this damn cold I'm trying to shake.

Aunt Beast

2:05 a.m. (this morning)


I'm better. I might be mostly recovered. Whatever hit me on Thursday seems to have burned itself out. And I am sick of lying in bed.

I get dizzy if I think too hard on how far behind I am on the writing. Between the depression and anxiety, the shitty weather, and getting sick, it's a wonder I've gotten the little done that I've managed.

Currently, it's 41˚F, with the windchill at 33˚F, and it's mostly cloudy. If the forecast can be believed, the temperatures the next few days will be slightly warmer, highs in the forties and fifties. This has been the longest, hardest winter of my life.

The last couple of days are a blur of sore throat and coughing and snot, lying in bed, binging on TV with Spooky. Mostly the surprisingly watchable Bering Sea Gold and the very excellent The Detectorists. For dinner last night, Spooky made me "medicine soup," which consists of several chicken leg quarters, a whole head of garlic, pearl onions, carrot, rosemary, thyme, sage, mushrooms, and green peppers; I add liberal amounts of hot sauce to my servings.

At the very least, I have to try and get caught up on my email this afternoon. And take a bath.

Today's photo comes courtesy Spooky. It does a pretty good job of communicating the bleakness of April in Providence.

Aunt Beast

1:20 p.m.


So, the sore throat turned into something worse, and this morning I'm wiped out and woozy. I'm going to get this posted and go back to bed. Spooky just went out to the market, to East Side and Whole Foods and also the pharmacy.

Currently, it's overcast and 38˚F, with the windchill at 30˚F.

Yesterday, we had to swing by my doctor's office to pick up some prescriptions. It was snowing like a son of a bitch. All in all, it snowed about two and a half hours yesterday, heavy snow, big wet flakes. If the ground had been colder, it would have come to several inches. Fortunately, it was mostly melting on contact. While we were on our way to the doctor, the snow became sleet, and on our way back home it became rain. It's still February here. Yesterday was a reminder. Right now, I'm too sick to let it get to me.

I spent most of yesterday, before and after the doctor trip, in bed. Spooky read me a little from House of Leaves. Blah, blah, blah.

Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press sent me the Publisher's Weekly review of the Tor.com edition of Black Helicopters:

Nominated for a World Fantasy Award when originally published in shorter form in 2013, this short novel is set in a world convulsed by skillfully evoked cosmic horrors and populated by the semisupernatural agents fighting them. It spans the period 1966–2152 but takes place predominantly in 2012, in the wake of an invasion of Lovecraftian entities off the coast of Maine. Among those fighting to contain the invasion are Sixty-Six, the descendant of a victim of a CIA behavioral engineering experiment, and the psionically gifted albino Ivoire. She and her identical twin, Bête, have been tracked by Ptolema, an ageless espionage agent with inscrutable motives, to Dublin. As the narrative ping-pongs among different decades and various locales, sinister associations emerge that link the tale’s events and their players, heightening the mood of paranoia and conjuring a sense of mysteries whose solutions may ultimately be unknowable. Kiernan’s novella is well-wrought dark fantasy struck from the template of the black-ops thriller. (May)

Works for me.

Aunt Beast

2:58 p.m.


Yesterday was the sort of day that was so bad it should be stricken from memory. So, I won't say much. We went to Spooky's parent's place in Saunderstown to care for the cat. The bleak landscape and the freezing wind were even worse than I'd expected, and I should have stayed home. And something's given me a sore throat. We got home yesterday afternoon about 2:30, and I laid down and slept an hour. I never sleep in the afternoon. My depression isn't usually the sort that makes you want to go to bed and not get up again.

Currently, it's 40˚F and overcast, with the windchill at 32˚F. There's talk of snow today and on Saturday morning and on Tuesday.

If you don't like Roseanne, if you can't stand Roseanne Barr's politics, do not watch the show. It's that easy. Attempting to prevent everyone else from watching the show, that's called censorship, plain and simple. The suppression of art (and that actually includes sitcoms), whether it arises from the Left or the Right, is a key element of fascism.

Aunt Beast

1:53 p.m.


The bitter cold is back. Currently, it's sunny and clear, 35˚F, with the windchill at 24˚F. The wind is blowing at 18 mph from the northwest, gusting to 36 mph. We're looking at snow flurries on both Friday and Saturday. I tell myself that if I can just make it 74 more days, I'll be home in Alabama, and next April I'll get spring.

I managed to proofread yesterday. I made it all the way through the Little Yellow Book ms., and I'm very pleased at how well story I wrote in 2006 stand up. "La Peau Verte," which I wrote in 2003, isn't quite as strong as the four "fairy tales" from 2006, but it's not bad. In 2006 and 2007, I was on fire. I was at the top of my game.

Lydia is flinging herself about the apartment, which she usually does this time of day.

A new episode of Roseanne last night. I'm very much enjoying the revival.

Spooky has to drive down to South County to her mom and dad's place to pill the cat. I may go with her. I may as well. I can pretend I'll write today, but that wind out there knows better. However, going with Spooky means braving the wide carnivorous sky and the stunted trees and the windswept fields.

Aunt Beast

3:38 p.m.


The past three days have been a terrible blur of depression and anger, largely triggered by bad weather and homesickness, and I have not only allowed it to keep me from working, but also spill out onto social media. Last night, the fever broke, so to speak, even if the weather is still shit. So, today I'm tired and embarrassed, and I'm gonna try to get back on course. Truthfully, I lost most of March to this very same thing, a month when I'd needed to get a lot of writing done. But all I managed to write was "Virginia Story," a total of, I think, six days writing time.

Currently, it's overcast and rainy, 54˚F, with the windchill at 51˚F. We're supposed to reach 65˚F, and maybe we will. But then the temperature's going to plunge thirty-five degrees to the nightly low and then a cold week. My ten years in Providence have taught me that March and April, once my delivery from winter, are bitter months in New England.

Ten years and one month ago (March 4, 2008), I announced via LJ that we were leaving Atlanta and moving to Providence I missed the anniversary last month, so I thought I'd mention it today.

Since several people have asked my opinion of Ready Player One I'll give it ~ I found it to be a brutally awful movie, a wretchedly, exhaustingly silly fusion of Willy Wonka and The Matrix, redesigned for millenials and the iGen/Gen Z kids. A ragtag team of CGI cartoons and wooden actors save Second Life, more or less. Steven Spielberg can make great films. This isn't one of them.

Anyway, now I have to do the proofreading on the ms. for the Little Yellow Book that I was supposed to have done three days ago.

Aunt Beast

1:02 p.m.


There was sun when I woke a little before 9 a.m., but now clouds are moving in. There's rain on the way. Currently, it's 44˚F, with the windchill at 36˚F.

Yesterday was a loss. We went to Providence Place Mall. We saw Steven Speilberg's Ready Player One. I walked around appalled at the frightful spectacle of humanity.

Maybe I can be working again by tomorrow. Sure as I do, though, we'll have more snow or a nor'easter or something. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were productive, but nothing since then.

I have a photo of the city. Providence is bound and determined to be the ugliest city in New England. It's well on its way. There's still a little charm around College Hill, but it's vanishing fast. Yesterday on Facebook I wrote, "Right now, nothing would please me as much as taking a wrecking ball to Providence. Or a small nuclear weapon." I thought I might feel different today and take the post down, but I don't and so I won't. I wish I could have seen Providence a hundred years ago, when it was still itself, before the scourge of modernity.

Also from Facebook, from last night, just after dinner: As if the last three days were not shitty enough, our PayPal account was just hacked and shows two charges from Las Vegas (where I have never been), from a Home Depot and a Pet Smart. Fortunately, we only have about $700 sitting in PayPal. Spooky's calling them now. I fucking hate this world. PayPal immediately canceled the card and we didn't lose any money, but for fuck's sake.

Aunt Beast

4:11 p.m.


The snow's piling up out there. I'd just begun to recover. I'd just managed, the past three days, to get back to work. And now the weather has shut me down again. I can't stay in this House today. I can't sit here smothering and claustrophobic. I don't know where we'll go, but I'm getting out of here. Currently, it's 33˚F, with the windchill at 26˚F.

Aunt Beast

9:59 a.m. (this morning)


And we're looking at more snow. Tomorrow's forecast calls for 2 to 4 inches. Currently, it's overcast and 56˚F, with the windchill at 50˚F.

Yesterday I put together the manuscript for the Little Yellow Book I'm doing with Borderlands Press. I decided against the Little Yellow Book of Picaresque and, instead, went with The Little Yellow Book of the Sídhe, collecting five of my fairy stories. Today, I have to proofread it. The manuscript comes to just under 23,000 words. Also, yesterday's mail brought me copies of the Spanish edition of Agents of Dreamland. It's a gorgeous little hardback.

I tried to take a short walk yesterday, but the wind was so cold (despite an air temperature close to 60˚F), that we only made it about half a block before we turned back. I just can't bring myself to bundle up when my brain tells me it's supposed to be spring.

Two photos today.

Aunt Beast

3:04 p.m.

2:57 p.m.


Sunny again today. yesterday, we made it to 64˚F, and I'm an idiot for not going outside. It won't be quite as warm today, I don't think. But I do mean to have a walk after I work. Currently, it's only 50˚F, with the windchill at 46˚F. Hopefully, we'll actually reach the projected high of 57˚F. I think February has finally arrived, here at the end of March.

Yesterday I wrote some stuff up for SubPress, and I did some work on the project for Borderlands Press, and I took care of more email, including email to Ellen Datlow and also Joyce Carol Oates. It was actually the first time I'd spoken with the latter, though I have long been a great admirer. But it was a more productive sort of day than I've been having. Hopefully today will be even more so.

Aunt Beast

7:45 p.m.


Overcast this morning, but kind of warm. Currently, it's 59˚F, no windchill, and I have the office window open.

I sorta got back to work yesterday. Not much, but a start. Mostly catching up on email. I hope to get a bit more than that done today. The inconvenient job I mentioned on the 22nd, well – someday I'll maybe tell that story. But I turned it down, because given who I am it was the smart thing to do. Still, that it went that way left me angry and annoyed at myself and even more depressed than I was before the opportunity arose. And that's one of the things I'm getting over right now. The job I did not take.

Yesterday was fairly decent, which was nice after Wednesday being a goodish day. Maybe today will follow suit, what with the warmth and all.

We're beginning to make packing plans. I've never lived in a place as long as ten years before (my previous record was a paltry four), but when you've lived in a place that long it's not an easy thing to extract yourself and all your junk. We are dug in, so to speak.

Lydia's on my desk, her nose pressed to the screen, smelling the outside world. This House has been sealed up against the winter for a good five or six months now.

Yesterday, I signed signature sheets for a limited edition of Steve Jones' Best New Horror 28. And I read "An enigmatic marine reptile—the actual first record of Omphalosaurus in the Muschelkalk of the Germanic basin" and "A well-preserved new mid-Paleocene penguin (Aves, Sphenisciformes) from the Waipara Greensand in New Zealand" from the most recent Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology.

Time to make the doughnuts.

Aunt Beast

12:53 p.m.


The sun's beginning to vanish behind clouds, but I have the office window open for the first time since at least November (that is, both the interior and storm windows). Currently, it's 54˚F, with the windchill at 52˚F, and that feels just about like a heatwave.

Yesterday, with no hope of working, we went to the 2 p.m. showing of Wes Anderson's Isle of Dogs at the Avon. It's a thoroughly charming, thoroughly delightful film, despite it's bleak, twenty-years-in-the-future landscape. And then there was the post office, and I got my contributor's copy of Steve Jones' Best New Horror 28, which reprints "Far From Any Shore." After the P.O., we had to make a trip to the market. Back home, after dinner, we watched the first two episodes of the new season of Roseanne, which were weird and hilarious and perfect and utterly disorienting, especially given we just watched the entire original series this winter (we finished earlier this month). Afterwards, we watched the first two episodes of Ridley Scott's adaptation of Dan Simmons' The Terror. Spooky and I read the novel way back in 2007, but the miniseries seems right on the mark to me. Surreal, eerie, a smothering sort of atmosphere, terrifying and claustrophobic. So, that was yesterday, a day that was in most ways light years better than the two nightmarish days that preceded it.

Bill Shafer at SubPress has sent me the mock-up for the cover of The Dinosaur Tourist, with cover art by Ray Troll, and I'm very happy with it.

Today, I have signature sheets to deal with.

Aunt Beast

3:58 p.m.


Yesterday was perfectly, entirely wretched, a day with no hope of redemption. A day that batters my bones to pulp. And I am better off not speaking of it so soon.

But I have a photograph that manages to sum of the ugliness and despair of yesterday and also the ugliness and despair of what Rhode Island has instead of spring.

The only thing I find especially heartening right now is the news that Ava DuVernay's bastardization of A Wrinkle in Time is a box-office bomb. There is still some small measure of justice in the world. And the book survives.

Aunt Beast

6:32 p.m.


I have never hated New England half as much as I hate it in this moment. Currently, it's partly cloudy, 43˚F, the windchill at 36˚F, and no sign of spring anywhere.

Still waiting. About the only thing I accomplished yesterday was updating the LJ's mirror at Dreamwidth. I can't see today being much different.

Happy Birthday to Jada, my dear friend since 1978, since I was a freshman in high school. That's means we're marking our 40th year of friendship.

Aunt Beast

2:03 p.m.


Sunny today, and there are hardly any clouds. Currently, it's 40˚F, with the windchill at 32˚F.

Waiting to hear from my agent about the aforementioned job, needing the waiting to be done.

I have spent far too much of my life waiting. There are few things more frustrating.

Aunt Beast

9:31 p.m.


Overcast and 35˚F. Supposedly, according to the National Weather Service, there's a light snowfall, but it's not happening in our part of town. The forecast for the coming week is looking up. This cold spell may finally be at an end, and we could see 60˚F by Thursday.

Yesterday went a little better than expected, even if I didn't get any work done. We went to the Target in Seekonk, Mass., and then to Eastside Marketplace here in Providence. At Target, I got a hoodie and a new pair of pajama pants. The crowd wasn't too bad. Spooky made spaghetti for dinner. We played some GW2. I'm leveling my newest toon, Ben Dela Lovecraft, a human mesmer. She's my 17th GW2 character since 2012. I've level-capped the other 16. Yesterday, I also began Larry McMurty's Leaving Cheyanne (1962). It's a great comfort, reading novels from when the world was still the world.

I have to get back to work by Tuesday, so this thing that came up back on Thursday has to be resolved tomorrow. I can't lose anymore time. In the meantime, today I'm having a True Detective marathon and plan to get through episodes 2-8 of Season Two.

I'm very much enjoying the new Decemberists' album, I'll Be Your Girl. It's certainly the best thing they've done since 2011's The King Is Dead, and it might be the best thing they've done since their great The Hazards of Love (2009). For me, the high point of I'll Be Your Girl is "Rusalka, Rusalka / Wild Rushes," but there's not a dog in the bunch.

Aunt Beast

2:02 p.m.


Overcast, cold, and there's a little snow inbound – again. It likely won't amount to more than a fraction of an inch, but that's not the point. Currently, it's 46˚F, with the windchill at 41˚F. Our high is forecast at 47˚F. Birmingham is expecting a high of 76˚F.

I actually got a pretty good night's sleep last night, something like seven and a half hours.

The work I referred to on Thursday, the profitable but inconvenient work, is beginning to look more like profitable but grueling, and I won't know until Monday what's really up with that. So, everything's on hold while I wait. Yesterday, I sent Tachyon the files they need for the "very best of" my short fiction volume they're working on. That was most of yesterday's work. The mail brought the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, four months late.

We've began a rewatch of Season Two of True Detective. I remain baffled at negative reactions to this season, except that viewers wanted more Southern Gothic and were disappointed with California Noir.

Bucktown for dinner. I broke a tiny chip off one of my many disintegrating teeth.

Today, I'm leaving the House. We're heading over to Target and the market, so at least I won't be sitting here all day. Small mercies.

Aunt Beast

10:42 a.m.


We have sunlight. It isn't warm, but it's at least a break in the gloom. Currently, it's 42˚F, with the windchill at 35˚F. In Birmingham, today's high will be about twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit warmer than Providence's high. And that's with the sky in Birmingham being overcast today.

At almost 54 and in declining health, there is absolutely nothing about aging that doesn't piss me off. It is degrading and painful and terrifying, and however others find nobility in it, I do not.

I spent most of yesterday in bed. Again. I slept a little more last night, a little more than the night before, so hopefully I can get some work done today. But this rotting body and the cold outside are doing their best to drag me down.

Yesterday's mail brought a package from Tom Montelone and Borderlands Press, pretty little books by Jack Ketchum, PZB, Karl Edward Wagner, Jonathan Mayberry, Bill Pronzini, Rick Hautala, Edward Lee, and Chet Williamson. I'll be doing one of these for Borderlands, likely to be titled The Little Yellow Book of Picaresque.

Aunt Beast

10:43 a.m. (this morning)


It's overcast and cold. But we somehow dodged the snow, unlike most of New England. There was a dusting late last night, but it melted right away from the roads and rooftops. So, we still have the snow that's been here a week, but nothing new. And I am grateful. Currently, it's 43˚F, with the windchill at 36˚F. We're looking at more bitterly cold nights – 27˚F tonight, 25˚F on Friday night, 25˚F on Saturday night, then 21˚F on Sunday night. There's a brutality in this unrelenting streak of chill.

There was the talk with my agent yesterday, which brought news of profitable work, but also of inconvenience. I'd like some swords with only a single edge.

I'm not well today, though I'm not at all sure why.

Aunt Beast

11:50 p.m.