Friday, April 04, 2003
I just had to stop and take a moment to remember the day of the week. Friday right? Jesus, how the hell can it be Friday?
I fell asleep in front of the television last night. It's one of the ways I deal with things, when this inability to write seizes me. I watch old movies. Last night I started off with The Boston Strangler, then The Lodger (1944), then moved on to Sink the Bismarck! (1960). Spooky woke me about 4:30 a.m. There was some awful Doris Day movie on. Spooky had been sleeping on the sofa and the Doris Day movie had given her a nightmare wherein Rygel was interrogating Fox Mulder about cosmetics. She asked if I was going to sleep the rest of the night in the living room. I said no and we wandered off to bed.
Yesterday was a Very Bad Day. I'm not sure it had much in the way of bright spots. We did swing on the old swings. There's an old playground here (it was a school, after all), and the swings are still in good condition. When the toes of my shoes were about fifteen feet off the ground, maximum forward arc, I jumped. I used to do this all the time when I was a kid. I guess I weighed a lot less, or was more nimble, or both, because whereas I used to land on my feet, I landed instead on my ass. Fortunately, there were lots and lots of dead leaves. Spooky rushed over to see if I was broken or dying or anything. I wasn't, though a giggling fit had seized me and I couldn't talk. That second or two of falling was nice. Is that a bright spot? It'll have to do.
I wrote nothing yesterday. But you've probably figured that out already. The ARCs of The Five of Cups arrived late in the afternoon, about 6 p.m. These review copies look pretty much like British trade paperbacks (or do you guys just call them paperbacks?). I sat on the kitchen floor staring at one of them. Almost twelve years since I began the novel in earnest (though some of it dates back to 1990, and some bits even back to high school), and here it was, finally, typeset, bound, entirely weirding me out. Oh, and I immediately began to discover typos that we'd missed. Anyway, I have a bunch and the extra-copies-of-books-Cait-wrote storage room is full, so I'll will offer a few on eBay, via the Cat Crutches Auction. The book itself is slated for a July 7th release.
I think a small hedgehog has lodged itself in my throat.
If I can't work today . . . oh, what's the use of threats. I always call my own bluffs. And they are usually just that, bluffs. I'm thinking if I'm still stuck in this morass in a day or two, Spooky and I are going to pack up and head east. Maybe the Carolina coast. Spend a couple of days driving around, not trying to write, and maybe that'll jog something loose. Then again, maybe I just need to jump out of that swing a few more times.
So . . . after T'Pol locks herself in her quarters with the bomb, and Captian Archer has killed Trip because he wouldn't agree to keep quiet to Starfleet, Dr. Phlox goes berzerk (it has something to do with Porthos eating one of his little alien pets) and elaborately vivisects Ensign Sato. She doesn't feel a thing, but is entirely conscious through the whole affair. That's when the Klingons show up, drunk and looking for trouble. I'm telling you, forget Rick Berman and Brannon Braga, I could write this show to hell and back.
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