on and on (no dna)

I think that sitting here this morning, immersing myself in The Routine, only serves to amplify the weirdness of the weekend.

That, and the frelling headache I woke up with.

I don't yet have a title for the story I am to begin today, but I feel moderately certain that I shall find one before I type the first sentence. It usually works out that way ("Riding the White Bull" was a recent and notable exception). It's another science-fiction story, another horrific science-fiction story, and it may be that's the direction my work is headed, in general. But I'm always looking for trends, whether they're there or not; my mind will create what it needs to see. Anyway, this story. Story #62, or #61, depending how you count. In some ways, it harks back to "Tears Seven Times Salt" (story #11, I think, begun in January 1995), in that it will focus on our mutable, immutable flesh, and my frustration with its limitations. Werewolves by any other name. Lycanthropes from test tubes. And so forth.

I came back to one of those pile-ups that only seem to occur when I leave home for more than 24-hours. Important e-mails to be answered. An essay by Neil that he wanted me to read over. A ms. ("Waycross") that I need to send to Rich Chizmar for Cemetery Dance. A very funny new Nar'eth pin-up by Leh'agvoi that I promise I'll get up on Nebari.Net this evening. Wedding photos from the now-hitched Bill Schafer (he of Subterranean Press). And, as I said, so forth.

And the waiting, unwritten story. The story which will be my alternate reality for the next few days. Any place must be better than here...

I conflated I

Addendum: Just a reminder, which I meant to include in my post this morning, that the Species of One LJ Community is up and running, under the Ever Watchful Eye of Spooky. I think a discussion of The Five of Cups is just getting started. You are all invited to join in.

Oh, and I would hope that the self-mockery inherent in my use of the Kerouac quote back on Friday was obvious. It's that thing called irony. Surely, there are few authors out there who've spent more time putting themselves on display than have I. If there's any longer a distinction between "the art and the artist," in my particular case, then I'll be damned if I can find it. I've become two or three of my most interesting characters. But, still, it was nice thought, what Jack said.