Monday, July 28, 2003
This is the sort of morning when I'm pretty certain I'd feel better if I just cut off my head and got it over with.
I have VNV Nation ("Frika") on the headphones, trying to nudge a little motivation and passion from my cloudy, discontented skull.
Because I have to finish Chapter Six today.
Otherwise, I might head for the museum and spend the day sitting with the dinosaurs, or treat myself to ice cream and a second viewing of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, or drive all the way to Athens and spend the day drinking Guinness at The Globe.
And that's the most important thing I have to tell you about being a writer. All of these things are within my grasp, all these infinitely more enjoyable, alternate ways the day might be spent. By my own will, I shall sit here in this chair at this computer in my cluttered office and do that other thing instead. I will trade a good day for another 1,000+ words of Murder of Angels. One day of my life for five or six pages. Forgive me. I don't know any better.
There is nothing much to say about yesterday. I spent most it editing notes I made for Low Red Moon in November and December of 2001, and adding a few footnotes, to be used in the lettered copies of the Subterranean Press edition of the novel. Twenty-six people will benefit from what I did yesterday, though it's still not finished.
I think I may have misplaced my work ethic.
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