It's been a productive weekend. On Saturday I read Blood Engines from start to finish, revising as I went, cleaning up clumsy language, fixing inconsistencies, snipping and expanding scenes as needed. It took pretty much all day (well, okay, maybe 6 hours of actual sitting-at-my-desk work, which I did a couple of hours at a time). I sent it off to my band of intrepid first readers, so in the fullness of time I'll see what they think.

Today I worked on Star*Line, answering three months of accumulated slush, putting together issue 27.2 (the poems, anyway -- I'll wait to do the editorial, letters, etc.) and starting on 27.3. I actually didn't have enough poems to fill up 27.3 (which is my last issue), so keep the submissions coming. That issue isn't due out until May anyway, so I've got time.

Otherwise, I haven't done much. Got rejected by Fortean Bureau -- I think it's time to trunk that story. It's not bad, but it's nothing special, a Lovecraftian horror story (minus the eldritch prose), and it's one of the oldest things I have in circulation. If a Lovecraft antho opens up, I might send it along there, but otherwise, I think it's time to put it in the drawer. I've been reading Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair, which isn't bad, but isn't as good as I'd expected from the rave reviews it received -- there's something about the writing I find off-putting. Maybe the smugness, or the combination of silliness and seriousness, which is sometimes quite jarring. Heather and I went to see a possible wedding site yesterday, at the sailboat house by Lake Merritt, and it's very nice, with marvelous views of Oakland. Looking at the lake and the hills reminded me that there are many things I love about living in this area...

My next project is to re-read and, if possible, finish my Rangergirl story, which I'd like to submit to the Zeppelin anthology, assuming I can get it into good enough shape. I should start on that this evening... but I don't know if I will. I may just goof off and/or do housework for the rest of the night.

On an unrelated and rather downbeat note, Jack Cady died last Wednesday. Friday morning I wrote an obituary for him for A Certain Magazine, which was a sad way to start the day. He was a fine writer, still going strong at age 71, and he'll be missed. So everybody go read "The Night We Buried Road Dog" or "By Reason of Darkness" or one of his novels, and think of Mr. Cady fondly.