I was going to sleep in this morning, after yesterday's hard physical labor and in anticipation of today's late night. But the cat was on my pillow, and she was much too purry, and badly needed to be chin-scritched. And after half an hour of that, all sleepy had left me.
So here I am.
Let the games begin.
Before we go out tonight, I really need to slush, start reading a MS for sartorias, and do some more hard thinking. Yesterday and the day before, I got edit notes on Undertow from my editor, my agent, and katallen, who must be in collusion or something, because they have all had the book since June.
The good news is, it meets with general, enthusiastic approval. The bad news is, They all have some reservations, they're all generally right, and I Have Some Work To Do. Guess that's my project for next week, starting as soon as the rest of the manuscript arrives. So, uh, talk amongst yourselves.
Here, have some more David Bowie. (You know how all artists start off with pastiche? This one made me feel better, because he really can't decide if he's pastiching Mick Jagger or Elvis, and the result is a bit unholy.
(It makes me want to pat him on the head and tell him that he just needs to go ahead and embrace his inner spaz and everything will be fine. And now I want to know exactly how much of GenX's conviction that spaz = sexy can be traced directly to Bowie and David Byrne....
(Oh, you know that primary-kinesthetic thing I'm always on about? Yes, I really do spend most of my life paying this much attention to people's body language. Don't ask me their faces look like, though, or their hair colors. I, er, tend not to notice.
(Fortunately, I'm a GenXer, so I can fool myself that my own spasticity is sexy, too.)