Froth

May 13

Tuesday night

It's apparent that I don't have the energy or focus necessary lately to do an entry more than once every few days, and rather than whine about the fact that I can't remember what I ate for lunch on Monday and am thus unable to transmit this deathless and vital information to you, the reader, I've decided to bang these mofos out in snippets, if that's what it takes. So now, in the fifteen minutes or so before I crash out totally and go to sleep, here's the beginning of an entry that I'll post, you know, whenever. Sometime.

"Fetch" by our own David Moles is up at Strange Horizons, and it's quite good, very odd. David has a strange and very powerful mind. Be pleased that he uses it to write fine stories instead of, say, enslaving us all with his vast powers.

It occurs to me that I need to write some stories, and some poems, and some reviews, but the drawback is, I'm much more into writing my novel at the moment. But the good people at Strange Horizons want more poems, and since I'm toying with the idea of doing an illustrated "A Bestiary" poetry chapbook via Tropism Press, I'd like to write some more of those poems, anyway. When will I do this? I don't know. I have read many graphic novels and made many notes, but don't have anything which could actually be called a review -- those reviews are due, oh, in a couple of weeks. I have time on those, it's not pressing, but it'd be less daunting if I did them a little at a time, instead of waiting until the last possible moment, as seems to be my wont with reviews. And the Lingering Dementia editor would really like a new story from me; I think I could write something he'd love, and I could use the money, but when, when?

Perhaps at Rio Hondo? It seems like a natural place to take a break from the novel and work on other things, to write in longhand in a notebook... a writing vacation. I should write a couple of poems before that, and certainly the reviews, but the short-story-writing-bug could be appeased during that 8 days...

Being sick sucks. I woke at 5 a.m. last night, unable to breathe, and since my wheezing was keeping Heather up, I relocated to the couch, where I made a little ramp for myself, because it was easier to breathe while sitting up. I dozed in and out -- mostly out -- until about 8 a.m., when I dragged myself upstairs to work on the novel. I wrote about 400 words. They were difficult words. They were almost entirely the wrong words. See, I'm writing a fight scene, and the stuff I wrote this morning? Almost entirely exposition. Gah. Even now my head hurts, I have no energy, and the thought of dragging myself into work tomorrow seems insurmountable. Of course, it felt that way this morning, too, and I surmounted it, so we'll see. I have to go into work, though -- we're smack in the middle of doing the issue, and unless my legs are paralyzed or I'm speaking in tongues, I should be there.

May 15

Thursday night

I'm still sick -- three nights now, waking up around 4 a.m. with my mouth desert-dry because I can't breathe through my clogged nose; I snuffle and wheeze and get up for water and wake Heather up, and take mercy on her by going out to the couch to sleep for the rest of the night. It's an odd sort of hallucinatory misery, and it's absolutely fucking my ability to write. My mornings -- normally a productive time -- are filled by shuffling around in a bathrobe, being exhausted, drinking tea, blowing my nose. I've only written 400 words all week. Being sick sucks.

Finally tonight I feel a bit better, though that may be because I just drank an entire pot of coffee, stimulant only slightly counteracted by a couple of shots of Bailey's. I feel preternaturally alert -- ah, better living through chemistry. I have a wonderful idea for a story. Even more odd and idiosyncratic than my Harpy story. I hope I can write again soon. I hope I can sleep through the night. Though that pot of coffee won't help, I suppose.

So what am I doing with my no-writing self? I'm reading Mike Harrison's collection, Things That Never Happen. I read "The Horse of Iron and How We Can Know It and be Changed by It Forever" today -- what a remarkable story. Such perfect details, such totally controlled language. I can learn a lot from these stories, I think.

I'm also cranking away at the day job -- one of my co-workers had a family emergency and had to leave town, so it got busier. I may, possibly, have to work a bit on Saturday. Maybe not. And if I do, that's not so bad -- it's overtime pay, which I can certainly use. Otherwise, I wash dishes. I tweak my "writing music" playlist on the computer, adding songs, deleting songs. Still mostly Cake, now some Old 97s, some Juliana's Pony, some Modest Mouse, Neutral Milk Hotel, Agent Ink, Jawbreaker. I think about what happens next in my Frog novel, but I don't write the scenes, because my head is filled with phlegm, my throat hurts, and I ache unexpectedly. It's difficult to concentrate. Which is why this entry is nothing but a series of nested digressions.

I had a story rejected. Two stories rejected? Something like that. I got a parking ticket the day we were juggling too many cars, after we got the new one, before we gave back the one we'd borrowed. I get junk mail and stare at the envelopes for a long time, confused by them, wondering what I did to deserve them, if I should do something about any of it.

Heather and I watched Mr. Show on DVD this week. A very funny show. Albeit only intermittently.

I put "Dr. Nefarious and the Lazarus Project" on my website. I re-read it when I was formatting it, and got to thinking about writing a novel set in that universe again. It's an idea I flirt with from time to time. It wouldn't be very difficult -- I even have a plot in mind, characters, complications and recomplications. Maybe it'll be my novel-after-next. I never have a shortage of ideas for books. A shortage of time, always. A shortage of focus, just lately.

I spoke to an agent on the phone this morning, at 8 a.m. (she is, of course, in New York, where it was not so early). She told me she'd like to see some changes to Rangergirl before she's willing to represent me. But, fortunately, the changes she wants are good, and reasonable -- things I knew already, things I feared, things my first readers suggested, too. They're all changes I can make -- that I should make -- that will make it a better book. She's going to read the novel a second time, and give me more detailed comments after Memorial Day. The things she loves about the book are the things I love about the book -- the town, the comic, the Western stuff. She's been prompt, polite, enthusiastic, wonderful to deal with so far. So I'm cautiously optimistic. I think I'd like working with her. I think she gets what I'm trying to do, and her comments were intelligent and well-articulated. She said she'd understand if I wanted to look for another agent, one who might not ask for changes. I told her that part of what I want from an agent is that kind of feedback. So. We'll see.

I talked to Meg on the phone tonight. She's in New York, still, being a social worker, which is a job I would find impossibly intimidating. It was good talking to her; I wish I could see her. I wish I could see lots of people. I talked to D. on the phone last weekend. I miss Amily, I miss Scott (at least sometimes I see Scott). These days the people I love are spread so far apart. E-mail isn't enough. I'm bad on the phone, I have trouble articulating. I don't know what to do about it. I'm glad I get to see Karen soon, at Wiscon. I'll see Jenn there, too. I'm looking forward to that so tremendously. After this week -- the illness, the greater-than-usual workload at the day job -- Wiscon will be heavenly, to be with my much-missed friends, to talk about stories and books and writing and life. Good times ahead.

Maybe tomorrow I won't be sick anymore.

Words written since February 1, 2003: 47,700

Words written since last entry:
400

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