Hour of the Wolf

Everything is in boxes. The house is all quiet and bare-walled. I’m leaving in about 4 hours for New York, and it’s readings and conventions through Sunday. I’ll be reading with the Salon Fantastique kids at KGB at 7 pm tomorrow night, then at Capclave in Silver Springs, Maryland all weekend. I even get to give my first workshop–on reading aloud.

I also get to stay with the fabulous

  and Delia Sherman, who are really just too wonderful for words.

It has been an incredibly long day. It will be an incredibly long week, though I think a good one once the driving in Manhattan part is over. I probably won’t be online much till after the move, but I’ll try to post on the road. And I have a TON of programming at Capclave, so if you ever wanted to hear me rattle on, this is a great con to do so.

I’m so tired–napped from six till now, and now I have to shower and pack up and do all the pre-con things one does. So I groggily turn on the internet and find that Goblin Fruit has posted their new issue, with my poem “Past the Rivers” and a freaking gorgeous illustration. Look at that! Wow! I need to start collecting prints of all the illustrations of my work that have cropped up over the last year. There’s also an audio recording, in case you want to test my chops for giving that workshop.

I look forward to Monday, when I will be leading a small caravan up to Ohio and becoming slightly human again for a week before the craziness of the Orphan’s Tales starts up. Did I mention my mom and my uncle are coming out for the launch party? I think this means that that night will have the highest percentage of my nearest and dearest ever gathered in one room.

It’s all happening, as Penny Lane says.

If you’re in NYC and want to meet up, I’ll be in town through Friday afternoon, and am available Thursday night for dinner. My cell is 757 409 2762.

I found a little die-cast TARDIS. Comes out on November 12th and is none too cheap with the exchange rate. But I must have it. For night like tonight, for talismanic-clutching, when one feels a distinct hurtling sensation.

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