Baked goods, bads, and morally ambiguouses.

I hate silverfish. I hate how they scuttle, I hate how many legs they have, I hate how they always always always showed up when I lived in the basement of Currier. The very sight of silverfish nauseates me; the mere thought of them gives me the jibblies.

That said, these are the most adorable silverfish ever.

- Either we have a very incontinent ghost, or our toilet is possessed. The damn thing starts to flush every ten or so minutes, then stops as if remembering that it's not supposed to do that. thomascantor is talking to the management folks; I'll stock up on holy water.

- It turns out the cure for the slow grinding pace of work on the new novel was to jump ahead half a chapter to the asskicking and to the scenes I'd envisioned when I began this book. I've finished a third of the first draft, and maybe a quarter of that will survive the second draft. Still, it's on paper, and now I'm writing the cool stuff and finding out a little more about the characters than I'd planned. (What do you mean, one of my two main characters is a total coward? Oh...I guess he is.)

- GORILLA DETECTOR! gorilla detector gorilla detector! This makes me happy in so many ways.

- I know this has been posted on several friends' pages, but if you're interested in either literary agents or internet legalities, take a look at what's going on with Barbara Bauer and Absolute Write. The gist of the story is this: she's a scammer, got added to the list of the Twenty Worst Agents, and when this was posted on Absolute Write, threatened their web host with legal action and got it to shut down. (If I have details wrong, please let me know.) The Absolute Write folks are doing their best to resurrect it, and Bauer's now got a lot of free publicity, all bad.

You must know, Doctor, that I did not choose to seek psychiatric help. I have no faith that I shall exit this room a healed man; I know now that I have been destined for the asylum since childhood. No mere conversation with you can steer me clear of that fate. That said, let us proceed with this court-compelled farce before my mad prattle provokes your crabbiness further . . . I committed everything I knew to memory, burned all my papers, and embroidered my most unfathomable and precious secrets in near-invisible thread on my security blanket, which as you can see, I carry still.

From "The Great Old Pumpkin" by John Aegard, currently on Strange Horizons. Lovecraft meets...well, if it's not clear from the excerpt and title, you'll have to read it to find out.

This made me very happy. sigerson, if you ever end up doing this to your kids (should they ever exist), I'm telling Mom.

It seems that when thomascantor is away, I tend to 1) get mildly depressed, 2) watch bad tv, and 3) gleefully malnourish myself. Is it just the effect of having someone else in the apartment know what I'm eating that keeps me from living on Cheez-Its and malted milk balls?

God, I hope not.

Went to Williamstown for too short a time -- got in last night, returned today -- but got to see a few people and, most important, hear thomascantor in concert. What's more, my family stopped in just to hear him on their way back from NH to IN. Yay!

One thing that I've learned in the last 48 hours is that I don't get to Williamstown enough. There are too many wonderful people there for me to stay away like this. Now...how do I fix this?

On a side note, I've noticed what's probably a good trend. Three of the last four rejection letters I've got have been from the head editors of their respective publications rather than the assistants. That's good, right? Right?

And now, a few useless links. ( Must...waste...time... )