Gardner Dozois has let truepenny and I know that he's taking our Lovecraftian space pirate story, "Boojum," for the Year's Best SF collection. Woot!
Funny thing: my strained finger is feeling much better these days, only a little more-wrong-than-sore when I clench my fist or put pressure on it--but I keep having dreams where it's hurt, and I always in those dreams feel an intense spike of disappointment. I think on a subconscious-frustration level, I'm quite annoyed by how much it slowed down my climbing.
The tennis elbow is markedly better, too. Woot! I'm not giving up on my compression band yet, though.
Speaking of which, after the week off, I will be back to the climbing gym on Monday. I think I'll give it one more week of easy work before throwing myself at 5.8/5.9s again. I suspect I do not like pain enough to ever be a really good climber.
And now, I need to shower and eat something and dress and go to qigong, and also maybe for a swim. Friday's workout thumped me so bad that all I did yesterday was go for a walk and do a little shopping (my hiking boots gave me a heel blister. boo!), but I am more alert now. I would rather like to still be in bed, but the class is at 9, so I need to get rolling.
And then maybe I can come home and find a few pieces of the harpy story or the mermaid story. Maybe. That would be nice. I like finishing stories.
Or I might just keep reading the book tanaise loaned me, The Hounds of the Morrigan, which is mostly cute and charming and well-written and I like it, and would like it a lot if it weren't for the eye-dialect making me cry.
Seriously, people. Every time you write bad phonetic dialect the baby Jesus kills a puppy. Just say no. Unless you're Mark Twain. And even then, think real hard about it.
Right. Coffee break's over.