26 February 2002
I don't know why I keep having dreams that feature Ellen Datlow and armed combat. (Heavily armed at that.)
I do know why the apartment smells like onions and waffles: Mark and I had an egg curry (recipe from David) for dinner, and Timprov had waffles. I'm still not so fond of the combination, but at least I understand it.
My tasks for the morning are simple: to book flights for us and to clean the house. This sounds simple, at least. It ought to be simple. Oughtn't it? Well. We shall see. The problem is that we're not going to the same places at the same times for the whole trip, but we want to ride home together. This shouldn't be difficult, but Northwest is not always our friend.
Oh, I'm not meaning to be mysterious here: I'm going home, and then home, and then coming back home. (Minneapolis. Omaha. Here.) I'll be gone for a big chunk of late March, but I really need to do this, and I'll take my work on the road. Manuscripts and notebooks and research reading. As C.J. said last night, vacation with me looks a lot like a work day for somebody else. (He was talking about me, not himself. Although sometimes it does apply both ways.)
Library binge yesterday, among other things. I started reading Emily Drake's The Magickers. Hmm. So far it's a Harry Potter rip-off to a boggling degree. It's not quite as extreme as Harry Potter -- the main character's stepparents are very much unlike him but don't seem to actually be nasty, same for his stepsister. But the elements are so similar it's off-putting: invitation delivered by bird-mail, wild-haired female friend, and so on down the list. Instead of the sorting hat for school houses, there's the wishing well (which speaks in rhyme) for cabin choices at the magic summer camp.
And the Irish woman is redheaded and hot-tempered, and the Indian woman is graceful and soft-voiced and wears little bells on her ankles. And so on. Bleah. I hope she mixes all this up soon, or this book will just be bad.
Short entry today, I know. Lots of stuff on my list, though, and most of the things that I'd like to write about are kind of private family things (which some of you have heard about over e-mail and some have experienced firsthand -- hi, Uncle Phil!). Suffice it to say that while some family members have risen admirably to the occasion, the comment I made earlier about funerals bringing out the best in people? That was sarcasm. You may be shocked to find that I understand the term, but I have been known to use it now and then.
And now for the magnificent joy of dusting.
Later. Oops! While I clean to the sounds of the Counting Crows, you all should enjoy the new issue of Speculon!. Especially because it's a very M'rissish issue. No fiction, but a review, an interview (long story, which I will tell tomorrow if someone asks), and an article. We figured there should be more stuff since the changeover of poetry editors left the magazine poetry-less for this issue. And I had a lot to say anyway, so...go, read, enjoy.
And the main page.
Or the last entry.
Or the next one.
Or even send me email.