It’s dark and dreary, raining cats and dogs, damp and cold (man, that makes my leg hurt!)–no novel-writing today. Yeah, I know the rain is part of nature, too. But you can’t write on paper that’s getting rained on. Nor do I wish to acquire a touch of pneumonia.
Yesterday I wrote six pages of Behold! and Wednesday, five. I am being strongly pulled along–to what kind of climax, I don’t know yet. I reckon I’ve got at least one more chapter set to write, a little more than 10,000 words; and it’s got to get done before the cold weather sets in and the ink won’t run out of the pen.
But not today, ol’ hoss–not today. I can always write Joe Collidge, and there’s a book I have to review for Chalcedon. There’s also the temptation to go back to bed. My cats advise it. H.P. Lovecraft always listened to his cats. But then he was eccentric and I’m not.