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The heat is still bad. We're holed up in my office with Dr. Muñoz. We'll likely spend most of the day in here.
And I've gotten behind. On the blog, I mean. We'll, on everything, really.
I am behind on being alive.
I hit these points, and I'm just tired of blogging, tired of writing, tired of it all. And don't go telling me how I have to write, how I have to write to be me, how I can't not write, how I'm driven to write, and so on and so forth. Because it's not true. If, tomorrow, someone gave me enough money that I would never have to sing for my supper again, I'd spend the rest of my life birdwatching, curating my gigantic and mostly uncurated fossil collection, reading, exploring New England, and just being alive. I'd probably never write much of anything else ever again.
And this is not to say I do not appreciate my readers, because I very much do.
It's just to say that I am very fucking tired, and tired of being tired. And no, I cannot afford to take some time off to recharge. No, not even a week or so. I have to keep this up for...well, for however much longer I have.
---
Yesterday was a bit of a disaster. I went to the Peace Dale Library, because it's pleasant and air conditioned and open until 8 p.m. on Mondays. I took with me everything I needed to start editing "The Maltese Unicorn," including my old iBook, to which I'd uploaded a copy of the ms. I got to the library and tried to turn on the iBook. It booted up just fine, but the screen was black. I did everything I could to get the screen to work. No go. Spooky was off at a dentists appointment, so I was stranded and couldn't work. I couldn't even really get angry about the iBook. The thing's ten years old (and how many laptops last that long?) and deserves to give up the ghost. But without it, I couldn't edit, and as that's what I was focused on doing, there was little else I could do. I grabbed an eclectic mix of books from the biography section and tried to read: Dracula: A Biography of Vlad the Impaler by Radu Florescu and Raymond T. McNally (1973); Schulz and Peanuts by David Michaelis (2007); Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly (2000). But I was too annoyed and distracted.
Then Spooky showed up sometime before five p.m. She turned on the iBook and showed me how to get the screen to work again. 1,2,3. Easy as pie. I wanted to put my head through a wall. So, we drove back to Providence, back to the swelter.
Day before yesterday, I attended to the line edits and some very minor rewrites on "Tidal Forces," did a short interview via Jeremy Jones' for Booklifenow.com, and answered email.
And today, I'll get to work on the layout of Sirenia Digest #55. Which I hope will go out to subscribers tomorrow evening. And tomorrow, I'll get to work on the edits and rewrites on "The Maltese Unicorn," which I have to finish this week.
And the mothmen say "Booya."
And I've gotten behind. On the blog, I mean. We'll, on everything, really.
I am behind on being alive.
I hit these points, and I'm just tired of blogging, tired of writing, tired of it all. And don't go telling me how I have to write, how I have to write to be me, how I can't not write, how I'm driven to write, and so on and so forth. Because it's not true. If, tomorrow, someone gave me enough money that I would never have to sing for my supper again, I'd spend the rest of my life birdwatching, curating my gigantic and mostly uncurated fossil collection, reading, exploring New England, and just being alive. I'd probably never write much of anything else ever again.
And this is not to say I do not appreciate my readers, because I very much do.
It's just to say that I am very fucking tired, and tired of being tired. And no, I cannot afford to take some time off to recharge. No, not even a week or so. I have to keep this up for...well, for however much longer I have.
---
Yesterday was a bit of a disaster. I went to the Peace Dale Library, because it's pleasant and air conditioned and open until 8 p.m. on Mondays. I took with me everything I needed to start editing "The Maltese Unicorn," including my old iBook, to which I'd uploaded a copy of the ms. I got to the library and tried to turn on the iBook. It booted up just fine, but the screen was black. I did everything I could to get the screen to work. No go. Spooky was off at a dentists appointment, so I was stranded and couldn't work. I couldn't even really get angry about the iBook. The thing's ten years old (and how many laptops last that long?) and deserves to give up the ghost. But without it, I couldn't edit, and as that's what I was focused on doing, there was little else I could do. I grabbed an eclectic mix of books from the biography section and tried to read: Dracula: A Biography of Vlad the Impaler by Radu Florescu and Raymond T. McNally (1973); Schulz and Peanuts by David Michaelis (2007); Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly (2000). But I was too annoyed and distracted.
Then Spooky showed up sometime before five p.m. She turned on the iBook and showed me how to get the screen to work again. 1,2,3. Easy as pie. I wanted to put my head through a wall. So, we drove back to Providence, back to the swelter.
Day before yesterday, I attended to the line edits and some very minor rewrites on "Tidal Forces," did a short interview via Jeremy Jones' for Booklifenow.com, and answered email.
And today, I'll get to work on the layout of Sirenia Digest #55. Which I hope will go out to subscribers tomorrow evening. And tomorrow, I'll get to work on the edits and rewrites on "The Maltese Unicorn," which I have to finish this week.
And the mothmen say "Booya."
