In Which I Brake My Pike Across His Foul Square Head

July 18/19

11:00 p.m. (July 18th)

Bleah. Good evening, dear ones.

Yes, that's right, I'm a guest in Sicktown again. I felt vaguely ill on Tuesday, and today I woke up in the throes of ickiness. It seems to be a cold with some weird lethargic strength-sapping component... I guess it's just my body wrestlin' with infection. I went to work for a few hours because there were some things I really wanted to get done.

Then I came home, and tried to rest, and mostly wound up sitting in front of my own computer, rather than the one at work. But at home I can sit around in my boxers and cough disgustingly and drink tea and scowl and not talk to anyone, so it's a superior set-up.

I was actually quite productive. I put stories into the mail. I'd only intended to send out a couple, but I realized that several others had come back recently and not been turned-around. While I was at the keyboard, I looked at a few of my "to-be-revised" stories. I read them, made some changes, and decided they were done. I'm not sure why I let them sit in the "to-do" pile for so long; the changes were fairly minor.

Altogether, I sent out 10 stories, 6 postal and 4 e-subs. I sent stories to markets as pro as SciFiction and as small-press as Not One of Us. I'm pretty happy; I now have 31 stories in the mail. I still have two left to revise ("Birch Stakes" and "Meranhu's Gifts"), and one that's basically done ("Fable From a Cage") that I want to look over one last time before sending out. Once those get in the mail, I'll have all my stories in circulation.

You know. Until I write some more.

My sickness is annoying. I really wanted to type changes to another novel chapter, but after a few hours of short-story revising my brain wouldn't cooperate with even that low-level of creativity. So I printed out poetry contracts and put those in the mail. Slowly, slowly I am clearing my decks. It feels good (even if my body doesn't).

Hmm. I'm making this sound worse than it is. I don't feel well, but I'm not on my deathbed or anything. I walked to the Post Office today; I can't be that sick. I felt sick enough to justify leaving work, but I'm okay, I'm lucid and so on. Just feeling sorta ick. Not much appetite. Some sore throat and sniffles and such.

So anyway... I went to Logos, to look for a book to read. Lansdale was depressing me. I found a Neal Barrett, Jr. novel, The Prophecy Machine, and got that. It's pretty good so far, and it features clockwork lizards! That's cool! What a lovely combination! I also got Pyle's King Arthur and His Knights, because I don't have any Arthurian materials, and Pyle's is one of the books I fondly remember reading in my childhood. It's from 1903, and has chapter titles like "In Which Sir Kay Faceth the Loathesome Abomination and Braketh His Sword Across Its Foul Countenance."

Well, okay. I made that chapter title up. But that's the general style.

I bought the book with Heather in mind, as she said she'd like to learn more about Arthurian stuff. Earlier tonight I told Heather I bought the book "for her," but it occurs to me that we're going to be living together, mingling our books, so such distinctions are not entirely necessary anymore...

8:50 a.m. (July 19)

So. Morning. I didn't post the entry last night because it didn't seem particularly finished. Um. Let's see.

I came to work this morning even though I feel worse than I did yesterday. I have such a short time here, and part of my mind is whispering "Blow it off," but there are things I'd really like to get finished before I'm gone, gone, gone. I suspect I'll only be here a few hours today, too, though.

Lessee. Hurray, Trey for being asked to join Not-A-Webring! NAW was good company anyway, but it just keeps getting better. Trey's journal is one of my favorites.

Hmm. I don't have anything great to say this morning. I had a very "Witch's Bicycle"-inspired dream, though. The story is, in part, about bullies. I dreamed about this mean bastard I went to school with, from primary school on up... Well, I wasn't going to mention his name, but why not? He was a mean bastard, so it's not like it's libelous to call him so. Wade Sullivan. Big mean guy with a squarish sorta Frankenstein-head. Not a stupid guy, just big and brutal. He tormented me through primary and junior high school, and then mostly stopped in high school when I suddenly had lots of friends. I haven't thought about him in a couple of years, probably, but I think "Witch's Bike" dredged a lot of that stuff back up.

I think reading Joe Lansdale has also influenced my subconscious, because in the dream, I kicked Wade's ass. I remember, in the dream, that I didn't feel any better after doing that. What a strangely moral dream. It didn't hold over, though, because when I woke up, and remembered the bits of the dream where I kicked his ass, I grinned, and felt awfully good.

There's your daily window into my psyche and my past. Hope you enjoyed it.