And thanks for all those of you who have celebrated or will celebrate with me. It's been good, and I hope for more good yet. Apparently it was my Bearthday: I got The Chains That You Refuse and Blood and Iron in the birthday presents I've opened so far. I'm having a hard time remembering there will be more. I've already gotten such good stuff!
(My great-aunt asked, "How are you going to have time to write any books, with all these books to read?" I tried to explain that people who write books also tend to read a lot of books. Sometimes the world I live in is so filled with books and people who love them that I forget what the rest of the world does.)
I am trying to get my brain to either stop fixating on "Flight of the Paleontologist" or just go with it. Stupid brain. I have the feeling I am never going to like this short story again. It's not the same thing as the story never being good -- not all the time, at least -- but it happens to me sometimes with short stories. Never so far with novels, but I fear it might someday. That would be horrible, to have upwards of 200 pages -- if it was a YA, more for some adult novels -- that I just never liked again. I should stop thinking about it, because thinking about it will do no good. I should just start typing up "In the Velvet Swamp" or poking Sampo some more, and I do still love Sampo, Frankenstein-baby that it is. I keep having the feeling that one of these days I'm going to be able to look at it and say, "Why, you're a lovely swan!" And then I'll remember that swans are nasty, ill-tempered beasts I would never invite into my home in living form. And then I'll find five bucks! Because this is becoming that kind of story, I think.