Poor goat.
August 6
Firstly, you should read Sean Klein's marvelous story "Mr. Muerte and the Eyeball Kid" over at Strange Horizons. It's quite good, comic-bookish, literary, and lovely. My kind of story.
Did y'all read about the drunken goat mayor who was castrated and nearly assassinated by a tourist who was angry because the goat drank his beer? The story's here, but requires registration at the NY Times site; part of it is excerpted at BoingBoing, here. Truly remarkable. I would have never written anything like it, because I simply don't have the imagination to create a fantasy that rivals such a uniquely Texan sort of reality.
I managed to write a bit today, 700 words or so of Rangergirl, mild productivity snatched from the jaws of lethargy. And make no mistake, I'm terribly lethargic tonight -- probably the result of my self-indulgent dinner of burger, fries, and a shake. That, plus the heat here in my garret, makes me very fuzzy-brained, but I'm resisting the urge to nap on the couch! I resist! I am strong! If not terribly articulate.
I read Neil Gaiman's play for voices Snow Glass Apples today. It's a beautiful edition from Biting Dog Press, and a very disturbing story. I would've thought there wouldn't be any more major variations on the Snow White story, but Gaiman found one that seems obvious in retrospect, and did marvelous things with it. Wish I could afford to own it myself, but it would be more of an indulgence than I can justify.
Heather and I bought the Diablo II expansion pack yesterday, which is why I didn't get any reading done last night. It's astonishing -- it fixes everything I found annoying about the un-expanded Diablo II, and adds many marvelous new features, and cool stuff, and an additional level... Mmm. Diablo goodness.
I did work on Star*Line a good bit last night, though; I'm trying to get the issue finished by the beginning of next week. Choosing the poems is the easy -- and fun -- bit. Now I have to sort among three months of accumulated small press reviews, market lists, and articles to decide what else needs to run, not to mention writing up some stuff regarding SFPA business. It's fun, ultimately...
The only real stress in my life comes, oddly enough, from something that could be fun. I've been given the task of writing a theme song (or, possibly, a celebratory 500th-issue song) for A Certain Magazine. Assuming it doesn't suck, we might sing it at Worldcon (I'm on a panel there, by the way, about the past, present, and future of A Certain Magazine). Eep. I am not a filker. I was given this task based on the misapprehension that my ability to write poetry translates to a facility with song. I'm doing my best, but... It's a bit worrisome. Suggestions and help are welcome!
Well, I suppose there's some stress simply associated with my job... in order to get this issue finished in time for Worldcon, we've had to push the schedule up by four days, which means we're cranking. Though I am, mostly, too busy to be stressed about that. I had to work a bit late today, though, which is always a bad sign.
That's about it, but before I go: Pictures!
Words written since February 1, 2002: 129,150
Words written since last entry: I (still) need underground comix. Lonely Nights by Dori Seda would be especially welcome.
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