Oy. Completely exhausted. We were out on the boat all weekend, tooling around the islands, writing Arthuriana, reading various and sundry, marvelling at the whole other world that exists just outside industrial Cleveland, a world of eerie silver-green water, lilies and swans and rolling storms, horizons that promise to go on forever, even though you know–you’re almost sure–they don’t. At least that’s what the map says. Hard to believe it’s out there, harder to come back.
I guess that’s the common experience in California–Big Sur and the Pacific and the foothills and such, are not so far away from the cities. But I’m used to that–I know all the secret kingdoms of California. I didn’t expect one here. Past the steel mill and over the water.
I have a writer’s group tonight–first one I’ve gone to since high school. This one is pretty informal, and it’s SF poetry, but still. Means I have to write something to share since poetry is something I’m really low on at the moment. Means reading it aloud to mostly strangers. Ow. At least there will be good food.
Grass-Cutting Sword is in a Schrodinger state today: supposed to be delivered, but editor is sick home, so no one knows if they have been. Fabulous. But Bones Like Black Sugar, my Gretel story, is available for free at Clarkesworld, as an enticement to buy Fantasy Magazine. Should you need some candy and lesbian necrophilia…you know where to go.
Work, work, work. I will work harder, Boxer said.
Husband is still in the Bad Place. No news on when he’s coming home now.
I deeply need a homecooked meal and a long bath. Someone to wash my hair and sing me a pretty song. I’m just so tired.