Yesterday I was up until four in the morning. And then I was up and functional by eight. Somehow I’m still not tired. Admittedly there was a nap in there, but…
One of the people I write with a fair bit of the time is doing NaNoWriMo. It’s rough going so far (mind, that doesn’t mean much yet), but she’s doing it. I, meanwhile, have written the hundred words of fiction in trip fragments this week.
I mean, it’s just been Hallowe’en; I practically feel guilty about not trying. It’s the time of year for (proper Lovecraft) ghouls and curiously meaningful scratches and shapes standing in the dark in the still of your room and just watching you.
You can’t see their eyes, after all.
(Oh yes, this is absolutely going to help me get to sleep. Because I needed a chaser after reading a third of the way through the House of Fear anthology. It’s a nice mix; part actual ghosts and part haunted houses (which are subtly different, but I fear I repeat myself), with a side order of the weird.)
Beginning to get sleepy, at least. The nice thing about the phone is that I can post in my room and don’t get distracted by the joys of the internet or the horror of the Sierra Madre. Much easier to lie down and go to sleep if you don’t need to tear yourself away from a computer motor.
(That’s the Sierra Madre from Fallout: New Vegas – Dead Money. Which is a quite well-done little horror story set in a haunted house… one which both corrupts its victims and is inhabited by ghosts, now that I think of it.)
Tomorrow I’ll try and get my books sorted, I suppose. And maybe I’ll hear back about work. The estimated start date just keeps creeping forward; at this point I’d be surprised if anything happened before Monday.
“I really need your help. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be a good person.”
Right, well, Tate has just gained a ridiculous amount of sympathy from me. I have been there. I mean, I haven’t nearly chewed anyone’s face off to make a point or defend my crush, but I have been there. (Yes, more American Horror Story, although no spoilers this time.)
Knowing that there’s something wrong, but that even then the mind you use to understand that truth is off. And knowing isn’t enough to fix it, thinking about it isn’t enough to fix it, wanting it isn’t enough, trying isn’t enough…
It’s hell, and there is no-one I’d wish that on. Continue reading “Madness and the pet monster.”
It is ridiculous to get stage fright when you are going to see someone else. Still.
Off to Scottish crime authors night; details later, from keyboard rather then phone.
ETA at 1 a.m. on the 25th:
I had a lovely time. 😀 Stuart MacBride, who was the author whose name caught my attention in the first place, is very funny in pretty much exactly the way you’d expect a man who writes gritty (and/or morbidly cheerful) stories about serial killers to be. He read the short story I just linked, too; said it was the first time he’d read it for an audience. He signed my copies of halfhead and Flesh House, and seemed pleased to hear I’d liked halfhead. Apparently he got a lot of grief for writing something that wasn’t in the series he’s best known for; I think that’s a serious shame, as it was a good book and a damn fun story.
Ian Rankin I had heard of and read before; Denise Mina I hadn’t. I’m rather regretting the last, now; I would have picked up her book The End of Wasp Season if I weren’t on a strict self-imposed moratorium of Only One More Book This Year Dammit. (There was an
accident incident with a bookstore in Niagara Falls. Oh lord, was there an incident.)