All Ye Know On Earth

So this is what I’m doing with my weekend:

I’m one of the Guests of Honor at Saloncon in Somerset, NJ. I’ll be reading and signing, obviously, and holding a Salon on fairy tales and their uses, as well as showing up at the Masquerade dressed as one of my own characters, because I am that much of a dork. So if you want to see me in fuck-me boots, sausage curls, and a pirate waistcoat, topped off with a Japanese fox-mask, and you are in the NJ/NY area, I highly suggest coming down to the con, as it looks to be a smashing event.

Today I have much work to do, what with a monster made of teeth, a dead city, and two lost kids on my literary platter. I also against all wisdom started a short story last night, which looks to be quite different from my usual schtick, but very marvelous. Is Honorata too purple a name?

Back to the page mines. I know I’ve been mum about everything but work, but my personal life is a little difficult right now, and I’m living more or less like a sick monk–wheezing and fasting and working on manuscripts like the devil is behind me. Not altogether that interesting. For some reason, Grimm has been desperate for affection and ridiculously cuddly–and a 90-pound German Shepherd who must cuddle you right now is hard to ignore, especially when she’s “nibbling” your ears. She’s like a cat, crawling into my lap and pushing her head up under my typing hands. Sheesh.

And the events of yesterday are still haunting me, though I’m not entirely sure why, since I did not really know him. Art and loss, I suppose. The only two constants. After all, taxes are always in flux. So I link you to this, which moved me so:

Winter Solstice, Camelot Station, by John M. Ford

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