Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Birmingham and back again.
We left early enough that I could spend a few minutes at the Public Library with the Ezra Winter mural. It has a calming influence on me that is equaled by few other things. I also wanted to see for myself that the fossil stump had survived. (If you have a copy of Trilobite: The Writing of Threshold, and/or if you've read Threshold, you know what I'm talking about.) Just after Spooky photographed it in October 2001, it was moved to allow the creation of some sort of little park and I'd feared for its fate. I got word a while back that it had survived, though I saw for myself yesterday that whoever moved it could have done so with more care. It was damaged and needs repairs I doubt it will receive. Ultimately, it was relocated to a spot only about five feet south of its original location, and it has a shiny new brass plaque, but was severely cracked in several places. And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, never mind.
I got home in time to see the conclusion of the Battlestar Galactica mini-series. I wasn't as impressed with the second half. I was relieved that they didn't go father with the Earth thing than they did, but the "ending" was so much a pitch for a ongoing series or the next film that it was particularly dissatisfying. Still, I think I'd watch more. It's certainly preferable to the upcoming Mad Mad House dren that the Sci-Fi Channel is foisting. Reality television. An ultimate oxymoron.
And today I have to go back to work on the novella. I've sent the first third on to Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press. But I have a serious case of I-don't-know-exactly-what-happens-next and the next two or three thousand words are going to be a slow train coming. E-mail from Neil, who's in Ireland, and Peter, who's in New York, and I wish I were on a plane.