Thursday, March 17, 2005
Okay. I think the Red Bull just hit me. Let's try this thing again.
First off, the car situation actually worsened yesterday, so this morning I'm going to begin by plugging the eBay auctions. If you've been thinking about picking up a copy of the (sold out) hardback of Low Red Moon, or getting an extra copy of Murder of Angels, or taking advantage of the tag-end of our $10 Silk sale, this would be a really frelling good time to do so. If you want something and don't see it listed, e-mail Spooky at email@example.com and she'll try to accomodate your needs and desires and whatnot. Please, have a look. "Buy it now" would be nice, if it's in your budget. Your purchases will be greatly appreciated. I know I sound like a goddamned televangelist, but there you go. Thanks.
Oh, and I promise Jesus won't get a dime of your money.
Yesterday was a spectacularly awful day. Just a series of unfortunate events, as Mr. Snickett might say, combined with some truly vile weather. Someone needs to tell the frelling meteorologists that we're just a couple of days shy of spring. The weather gods clearly have no idea. Cold and rain, rain and cold. Temperatures hardly better than freezing (and more of that today). Mud. Dark grey skies. Me trying to get a dead battery out of Spooky's car and stripping a nut because I was shivering too much to hold the wrench steady. Having to slog out to Borders, then the market. Yuck. I will not set foot outside this house again until the weather gets frelling warm! I can do that, you know. Self-imposed isolation. It's one of my superpowers. So, yes, an evil day yesterday, and then I only slept three hours.
And yet, despite all the chaos, I managed to write an extremely respectable 1,616 words of Chapter Three of Daughter of Hounds yesterday. I will almost certainly finish the chapter this afternoon. I have hope for this book once more. Day before yesterday, I passed the 200-page mark. It moves forward.
We'll be doing the St. Patrick's thing this evening. These days, other than Halloween, it's about as close as I get to observing a holiday. I'll hang my Irish flag on the front porch, and for dinner I'll be cooking a brisket of corned beef with cabbage and a pot of colcannon. We'll have Guinness. If we have enough Guinness, I'll probably wind up playing the frelling Pogues until the neighbors start hurling rocks at the house. So — Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig agat!
I shall most likely not wear anything green.
I was thinking last night, when I was trying not to fall asleep, that I'd write something today about networking as it pertains to publishing, about how I used to be very good at it, when I wasn't quite so Howard Hughes, how I hardly make the effort these days, how that might not be such a good thing, and so forth. But It's 8:44, and I suppose if I have to be awake at this hour, I should be writing, not talking about writing, or, worse still, talking about publishing. So, we'll do that later.
Thanks to Annie M. for the drad twilek icon. Now, if someone would just send me one of Jean-Baptiste Immanuel Zorg...