In Light

March 17

Ah, god, life, so big and wide and strange.

For instance, my job. Today I worked 9 1/2 hours, pretty much non-stop (certainly no kind of real break), working to finish up the April ish, which is the special horror issue. We were all there, all my co-workers, rearranging shit, picking out pictures, making corrections, racing the clock, and though my wrists got a bit crunchy, I wasn't unhappy -- I was helping to make a rather damn cool magazine, you know? And my boss fed us onion cakes and samosas. I had a pretty good time. Odd. Often the last day of the issue stresses me out, but not this time, for some reason.

Last week, at work, I held in my hands a first edition of The Outsider and Others by H.P. Lovecraft, from 1939, the first book published by Arkham House. I mean. Wow.

And also last week I wrote an obituary for the man who wrote Spartacus. He had a very interesting life, most of which, natch, didn't make it into the obit. But. I write. For my job. And it doesn't scare me. I can do it. I can do it well.

Strange. But I really do like my job, occasional stresses aside. I've been there... wow. Almost 20 months.

And I've known Heather for 24 months, exactly.

This year, I'm 26, right? And I'm nominated for a Nebula award. I'm working on a book about frogs and oracles and civic responsibility and the gaping mouth of the underworld. I wander around in a joyful daze. I've written 1800 words since Sunday night. It's so much fun.

I'm starting a 'zine called Flytrap. My friends and peers are among the most talented and fabulous people ever in the history of the world. I get to publish some of them, for a paltry $10. A couple of them won't even take the money -- they're doing it for love, for respect, for kicks. (Me, I never turn down money for writing, not even $10... because I can use it, I reason, to pay a Flytrap contributor.)

I edit a lovely poetry journal, which gives me great pleasure.

I've had a lot of good sex in my life, and have every reason to expect I shall have more.

I get paid to read books and write down what I thought of them.

I'm engaged to a brilliant writer, a beautiful woman, a loving and generous person.

There's good coffee in the house. There's Bailey's Irish creme. Tater tots. Some beer. Wine on the wine rack.

My stories get published. People read them. My stories are illustrated with pretty pictures.

I make chapbooks, with my fiancee.

Soon, I get to go to the Nebula Awards ceremony, and eat a nice dinner. Then I get to go to Wiscon, and drink tasty but ultimately vile concoctions and smile at people I like.

I get to read good stories like this one by my friend Mike.

Sometimes life is hard. It really is. I know.

In college, I knew a woman, and she was sad one day, and said "Life is so hard. Even when it's good, it's hard."

I thought about it for a minute. I nodded. I said "Yeah, but even when it's hard, it's good."

Facile? Yeah. And I wouldn't say it to someone in the midst of a personal tragedy or something. But... it's always rung true for me.

Even when it's hard, it's good. There's a book, or a glance, or a moment, or a taste, or a sensation, or an irony, or a realization, or a moment of self-awareness, or a hope, or a swig of apple wine, or an idea. A line from a poem you'll never write, but it's a good line. The knowledge that morning will come.

We're heading into hard times. The country, the world. Some of the hardest. I know that. But I also know history. The years of peace and prosperity I've known in my life -- they're blips, they're isolated, they're the deviation from the norm. Hard times have always been, always will be. But people come through them, thrive in them, live and love their way through them. Not all people. Obviously.

So notice them, the good things. Cherish them. The skin of the world is thin. We live on it as we can.

Really. Enjoy.

Words written since February 1, 2003: 18,300

Words written since last entry:
1,800

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