Squeezed in the bare minimum of writing today in between messing some more with the work-at-home software (I keep trying, when I know I should just ask someone at work for help. I hate asking for help) and doing tons o' laundry and reading the very excellent 'zine Say... was that a kiss?

I must say, I quite enjoyed all three of the stories I read in here (so far). Tim Pratt wrote a wickedly horrific fairy tale with a beautiful ending, Greg van Eekhout wrote a hilarious heavy-metal cryogenics tale set in the far future, and Jay Lake wrote a nifty story about a soul finding freedom that had a great final image. And there's more good stuff in there to read. A fine investment for five slim dollars.

I'm getting some very good ideas for layout and styles I can "borrow" for Intracities. Things all seem to be falling into place nicely for that project. I just hope I get some more stories! But it's early, I know. Must be patient.

Speaking of stories and 'zines, the table of contents for Flytrap was announced today by Tim and Heather, and damn, it looks good! My own story notwithstanding, of course. So cool to be sharing a ToC with these other writers, including my fellow collaborators Greg and Derek (and maybe Tim, if he slips one of his stories in there, as I hope he does!). Not to mention stories by Jay Lake, Jenn Reese, and Susan Groppi (her fiction debut???) and other fine folks. Including poetry and articles as well. Most impressive

Have a good one! Later.

Now Playing:
"1200 Curfews," Indigo Girls

Now Reading:
Say... Was That a Kiss?
"El Dia de los Muertos," Brian A. Hopkins

Stories out to Publishers:
17

Today's Words:
1,500

Novel Words:
47,000

Words for '03:
64,700

Today's Quote:
Before he could open the gate, Mitch heard a car behind him, and he turned to see the same three older tourists step cautiously out of a dusty blue van. They were staring up at the memorial for the four soldiers. Mitch looked at the two old men and woman, dressed in matching dark blue sweaters and khaki pants like some sort of uniform. Surely they had to be hot in their outfits, Mitch thought, as the temperatures rose into the eighties. The trio the narrow parking section in front of the graveyard and hobbled up onto the wooden sidewalk.

Mitch and Ella were partially hidden by the big oak tree between them and the older tourists, and he didn’t think they would bother with this section of the cemetery. Most of the markers were unreadable, and people weren’t allowed inside the fenced-off area. Most people, he thought, but not me. Ignoring the No Trespassing sign, he undid the latch to the gate and walked into the Howard graveyard.