Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangster
May 19
I wrote a good bit on Rangergirl this weekend, 6000 words, a few important scenes. One of the scenes will have to be expanded a good bit -- it's quite pivotal, the culmination of a lot of hints and insinuations -- but I got down the outlines, at least, and I can flesh it out later. Whee! The book is 42,000 words long, thus far; I'm approaching the halfway point. I have no idea how long it will take me to finish; I've learned not to make predictions like that anymore. It'll be done when it's done, and in the meantime, I'm absolutely in love with the characters, the writing, the whole experience. La and la and la! Damn it feels good to be a writer.
So on Friday we watched Office Space, which Heather hadn't seen before -- it's a fun movie, as I remembered, and makes me glad I have the job I do. I worked in a cubicle-maze for about six months in 2000, and it didn't agree with me, though it wasn't as kafkaesque as the company depicted in the movie...
On Saturday we got up and I wrote a bit on the novel, then Heather and I took my car to the tire place. We BARTed to Berkeley and went to the gym, and afterward I had some coffee at Au Coq and read a bit. Then came back to pick up my car, which is healed, and has newly aligned wheels, and all's well. Damn it feels good to have a tire. After that I worked on the novel more, and typed and revised my story "Down with the Lizards and the Bees", which I need to send out next week.
We rented Soul Survivors, which was awful. Just awful. Not even the hotness of Eliza Dushku could redeem this movie (though we did, indeed, replay the shower scene, and the scenes with her dancing in the club, and that provided a measure of entertainment). The movie was boring and the good cast members were wasted and, anyway, I'll stop wasting words on it.
We had fish curry for dinner, which was pretty yummy, though the curry wasn't spicy enough. A pleasant evening at home... Damn it feels good to have an awesome girlfriend.
Today we woke, frolicked, and went to the café for lunch and to work. I wrote (most of) a review of Jim Van Pelt's excellent collection Strangers and Beggars, and read some of Craig Nova's Wetware, which I'll probably review in the future. I answered my snail mail Star*Line submissions (and my post office problems have been rectified, yay!), accepting four poems, which makes me happy happy. I got good stuff. I love this editing stuff. Damn it feels good to be an editor.
(You people need to join SFPA! Come on! It's cheap! You get Star*Line every two months, soon to be edited by me! You get a copy of the Rhysling anthology every year, containing some of the best speculative poetry in the universe! You get to vote on the Rhyslings, and on the Grandmaster award! Support the starving subgenre that I call home! C'mon! Follow the link and send a check to our treasurer! Jump on the funboat! You don't have to be a speculative poet, either, readers and well-wishers are welcome!)
We came home, and I wrote more, and got a phone call from my high-school-and-bits-of-college sweetheart, Amily, to tell me she's pregnant! (This is good news) This is the first ex of mine to get pregnant... it's not as weird as I thought it'd be. I should tell her to read Mockingbird...
Guess I should go wash dishes now. La.
Damn it feels good to finish a journal entry.
Words written since February 1, 2002: 74,400
Words written since last entry: 6,400
Send me bullets made from metal from a meteorite. Any caliber will do. (Or is it illegal to send novelty bullets through the mails? If so, don't. Send chocolate instead. Maybe chocolate bullets. Unless that's also illegal. Damn these new security precautions and the assorted complexities thereof.)
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