Strands of Fist and Bone

September 27

I'm a bit melancholy, just so you know.

The past few days have been difficult, interpersonal weirdness of a very distressing sort. This isn't the place to go into it (there is no such place, really), but it's shaken some things I consider fundamental in my life.

So.

And today that agent rejected my novel. Declined to represent it. Praised my writing, said he was confident that I would sell books if I continued writing, but had problems with this particular novel, problems with the protagonist, with the plot. I don't really agree with his assessments, and I'm not moved to make the changes suggested by his comments. We're looking at the book from different perspectives. He doesn't feel he can sell it. Fair enough. Everybody gets rejected, you know? And as Heather says, at least I'm out of my holding pattern now, I can send the book elsewhere. And Raveling is on its way to being revised (I might be sending out the first three chapters and a synopsis soon, actually). And I've been writing on Rangergirl, though I haven't mentioned it here, I don't think-- the entries here have been a bit erratic of late.

I did finish a short story today, "Bone Sigh," only about 2000 words long. I've been reading the new year's best fantasy and horror, and the year's best horror from last year, and I got in the mood to write a short horror story. I've had a disconnected image floating in my head for a while, so I started writing about it, and the story emerged. It's not going to turn the literary world on its ear, but it's a good enough story, I think.

Normally writing a story cheers me up; but I'm still melancholy.

Heather's a bit down too, so we decided to veg out tonight. We watched The Mummy, and then we wrestled around a bit, and ate ice cream, and drank yummy beverages, and shagged, and tried to cheer one another up. Heather's beautiful, and so good inside and out and through-and-through, and I don't know what I'd do without her.

Oh, and Heather's a Web Rat now, too! And I didn't even invite her (wasn't sure it'd be appropriate), but when someone else brought her up, I happily seconded. I'm glad she's joined our little cross-promotional group...

Work is still quite good, at least. I'm very busy and it makes me happy and they seem happy with me, and I'm even mentioned by name in the editorial of the October issue of A Certain Magazine, as a new addition to the staff. So, tra la, and hurray. And I'll have a review in the November issue, and I'm writing a review for the issue after that, and it's good.

Other things, not so good. I don't like dreaming about bombs and anthrax, or about interpersonal dissolutions. I don't like living in Rashomon.

I think about Alexander the Great, and what his advisors gave him when he asked for a single thing that would make him happy in the sad times and sad in the happy times. They gave him a ring inscribed with the words "This too shall pass." And Douglas Coupland, in that same vein: "Nothing very very good and nothing very very bad lasts for very very long."

Yeah. Comfort.