You're Not Going To Believe This....

4 November 2001

So last night when the D-Backs were up 12-0, I called my Grandma. (This is not supposed to be the unbelievable part. This is totally believable.) "Are we happier now?" I asked. She laughed and laughed. "Oh, yes, much better!" We talked for awhile longer, and all of a sudden I could see what Mom meant: Grandma and Grandpa each asked how I was doing in two or three different ways, kind of to cover all the bases, how was I feeling, how was my work going, etc. I talked about how hard it must be to be a parent when your kid is having a tough month. But it's got to be at least as hard for Grandma and Grandpa, maybe more so. They've been just as involved in my life, and they don't have to think too much about my faults and flaws if they don't want to. Grandparents' prerogative.

Some people try to talk about my childhood family unit as "the three of you." Not really, no. It was the five of us. Even when Grandma and Grandpa lived 400 miles away, I saw them at least three weekends out of every two months. And then when they moved four blocks away, we ate together every single day of the week. Traded off cooking.

I'm confused enough by people who don't have special "just us two" things with their grandparents. (Which is a lot of people, I realize -- most of them, I think.) People who don't have that stuff with their parents totally baffle me.

Anyway. So. Well, so you're not going to believe this. But...I was coughing again last night, and I felt something go pop again last night. And then when I put my pajamas on, I felt a small bump along one of my ribs that wasn't there before. So I called the folks and asked them what they thought I should do, and they thought I should call the doctor and see what the doctor thought I should do. So I called, and I talked to a clerk and then a nurse, who then talked to the doctor on duty. The consensus was that I probably had another break, but that as long as I wasn't having any breathing problems, there wasn't anything they could do about it, so I should just stay home and keep taking my Advil.


I started reading Brian Stableford's The Angel of Pain, which had been billed to Timprov as "Victorian dark fantasy." Um. If this is dark fantasy, so is Anne Rice. So I stopped reading that again -- I just have very little interest in standard-issue horror novels. Timprov bought it for around $1, so if he doesn't like it, either, he can foist it off on, oh, I don't know, someone who likes that sort of thing.

But the title seemed apropos.

I had finished The Mismeasure of Man, so when I determined that I was not reading The Angel of Pain, I started Unnatural Death by Dorothy Sayers, borrowed from David. (I told David, when he was coming down to visit this week, that I needed books to read, so he brought me a bunch.) It was my attempt at relaxation. And I turned on "My Fair Lady" after the ballgame. Didn't stay for the end. It was past my bedtime, and I hate the end. Stupid 'Enry 'Iggins doesn't have to be'ave like a 'uman being at all.

I had spent most of the day working on edits to Reprogramming. The net for the day was 5000 new words. The gross was much larger than that, because I cut a lot of words as well. I looked at my notes and realized that there were some rather important things I'd neglected to do in earlier drafts. For example, I'd left one of the major characters in jail at the end of the book without even commenting that she was going to trial or had posted bail or anything like that. Oops. Grandpa said that was sequel material right there, but even if I was going to leave her there, I think I should say so. I had felt that the denouement was thin, but then I made a list of everything I would like to address in it. Oops. 3000 words later....

Oh, and I got a no from F&SF. Neither anthrax nor bombs nor gloom of night shall stop GVG and his assistant from their one-week rejections. Kind of comforting, in its own sick way.

I also looked at Ralan's Market List. Some days Ralan Conley is my favorite person in the genre for this market list. I've been intending to submit to more anthologies -- I think it would broaden my markets, which is pretty necessary just now, and would also give more potential for exposure. But this intention doesn't extend to being willing to write Lovecraft stories. All of a sudden, though, there are anthologies listed! I can submit to them! They have manageable topics (or sometimes no topics at all), and their deadlines are reasonable! I'm very happy about this.

Well, Karina, at least wants to read my lunar epoxy story, whatever it may be. So, you know, one person, that's enough. Right? Sure it is. And she's sick, too, so she ought to be humored. And I'd been meaning to send something to Artemis magazine. So. I shouldn't be surprised that Karina's the one who wrote to say, Yes, go for it! since she's been pretty freewrite-enthusiastic -- and I always like the freewrite stuff she posts in her journal, so I think it's reasonable for her to be so.

In conclusion, I want credit that I made no reference to any pop stars in the title of this entry, even though I did accidentally do something again. Titles are hard. I should get points here.

Points towards what is still an open question.

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