It's cold and rainy outside, I'm feeling a bit cold and rainy inside, and for one brief, mad moment I considered posting some weepy angst-ridden poetry here. Then I realized that I would have to start dressing in black and living as a fifteen year old girl if I did that, and somehow...that's just not convincing. Besides, though I can cut a good piece of fiction, my poetry sucks rocks. You're off the hook. Be glad.
So tell me something good.
Thank you all for the good words. Just what I needed today.
(Still cool and wet outside, though...)
Just did the monthly OWC Presents gig at Powell's in Beaverton. Nearly a full house. Talked for an hour about building a career in the small press, yakked for about an hour after with various and sundry folks, saw a few books head for the cash registers, had a lot of fun. As I was leaving, one of the cashiers commented, "you had them laughing, that's good." I told her looks weren't everything, unfortunately.
Unpacking my tote at home I discovered some shells the Child had given me for safekeeping at the coast yesterday. Of course the only one that broke was the sea urchin skeleton, which was the one fairly unusual one she'd gathered. I feel obscurely sad, as if I have failed her as a father. Translation: where the hell am I going to find another sea urchin skeleton?