Woke up with Jackson Browne’s In the Shape of a Heart on my mental radio; the dogs, while understanding nothing of the song, are nevertheless quite happy to have me croon to them. Especially if it’s accompanied by ear-rubs or chest-skritches, and they like Browne far better than, say, the mornings I wake up with Penderecki or Marilyn Manson on the dial.
The stormwrack has largely been cleaned up. The damage isn’t as bad as I feared, but it’s still going to need an insurance adjustor to come out and take a look. Fortunately, that’s scheduled. Snow is pretty, but I could have done without all this bullshit.
I’m pushing to get the werelion story fully uploaded as a serial; it’ll be up until June, then pulled and refurbished for actual publication. Might as well; my recent experiment in trying to channel just the tiniest fraction of the massive, entitled self-confidence of a mediocre dumbass is bearing fruit. Sure, it’s a terrible story, the literary equivalent to scenery-chewing. But it’s not unfinished and everyone I’ve told about the damn project–or given tastes, teasers, or chunks to–has said it should be out in the world. So…here we go.
I also want to get it posted and out of the way before revisions for Ghost Squad #2 land. That’s Klemp’s book, and the beta readers liked it well enough. Now I can incorporate some of their suggestions with the editor’s, and the book will be stronger for it. Maybe that’s why I have this particular song running around inside my cranium. It does seem to fit Klemp and Beck, except the ending is far, far less bittersweet.
I think my editor would have been very cross if the book had decided to end otherwise, though. She really likes Klemp. (Wait until I get to Jackson’s story. The entire Squad is in for a rough ride on that one…)
Anyway, the dogs are quietly getting their first morning nap out of the way while I absorb coffee, but will soon wake up again and start lobbying for toast scraps. They got tiny dabs of grease in their breakfast kibble, but apparently nothing is as valuable as dry sourdough I’ve slobbered on. The little furry weirdos obviously think it some manner of manna, which mystifies me. But at least they wait patiently, then “sit pretty” for their scraps, and both enjoy the ritual. So do I, though I don’t consider it quite as necessary as they seem to.
Time to get this song off repeat and dump some bread in the toaster. Thursday’s going to be busy, especially since there’s a tonne of special stuff going out to subscribers, and if I work through the weekend the werelion story will be fully (though temporarily) out of my hair. Which might mean a day off, and by then I might even be tired enough to take a mini-vacay instead of simply using the time to catch up on correspondence and administrivia left hanging fire while I get the damn werelions sorted.
Of course, I could cue up Somebody’s Baby, since it’s apparently a Browne kind of day. That’s a good song to dance around the kitchen with while sourdough’s being turned into toast, and the dogs will be more than happy to waltz along.
There’s the day’s lesson, my dears. Don’t forget to do a little dancing–the world’s on fire, we might as well.
I’ve been saying eh, we might as well a lot lately. It’s probably not healthy, but it’s better than screaming. Or so I keep telling myself.
See you around.