So 2006 began ominously. First there was the thunder and lightning (admist the sleet) and now there are about a thousand black birds perched in every tree in the neighborhood. Alfred Hitchcock would have shit himself for footage of these guys. Every time I open the front door, it's like the beaches of Normandy out there.
The writing frustrates me. Not because I'm not doing any, but because I'm not sure what to do. I feel like I need a challenge, I need to do something outside what I've been doing, and even though the third book in the sci-fi trilogy presents a staggering challenge to me, it's not the one I'm looking for right now. I started that novel in a month project before my uncle passed away, had about 80 pages of stuff to work with, and now I think I want to pursue that first. Like the Angel Book, it's a collision of genres, a literary riff on the fantastic, and much more challenging to me than the trilogy; if I wonder how the hell I'm going to do something, then I usually break a lot of shit until I do.
Happy 30th to my brother Aaron.