After a week of boring health concerns, my body has escaped its threshold of pain and discomfort that so plagued my brain that I was unable to concentrate of fictive creation. How I wish, now, that I had been more wise in regards to my health when I was young. I see now that, as we age, health is the one really important thing, so much else depends on it. Good health, or fairly good health, gives one a serenity of mind that allows one to function in life. This is especially true for me as a writer. When I write, I cast a spell over my psyche and becomes lost within a world of art. I think differently, I feel differently. I walk paths of emotion and mentality that are denied me in mundane reality. I dwell in the rich rare realm of Literary Art -- my home of homes, my place of sanity and peace. I function as I was meant to function.
I hope to complete a new prose poem tonight -- perhaps I shall finally write the one I have been wanting to write inspir'd by the silent film, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligary. It's strange, the timing of things, the way some pieces require days or weeks or years before they can spill from one's brain onto paper or be expressed while linked to keyboard. The "right moment" of ideas and inspiration can come like an eye-blink, not convoked by anything except a sudden desire to write.
I have been, this day, working on the story that is a semi-sequel to Bloch's "The Cheaters." I had a good portion of Part II written, but one of the new characters suddenly didn't feel "right" for the story, and so I deleted her and began again. The semi-rough is now at 2,900 words, and I feel that I have only just begun. Although I love returning to the prose poem form, I am also in the mood to write some new and lengthy novelettes. Yuggoth, how I hope one day to write a thing of 20,000 or 25,000 words! The portion of the tale I am working on now introduces a new Sesqua Valley character that is based on HPL's Erich Zann, a once-mute violin player named Jon-Eric le Seuil. This antient creature was once unable to speak, but coming to Sesqua Valley he was given the gift of speech, by way of diabolic magick, by Simon Gregory Williams. However, the process of speaking is a source of pain in the old man's throat, and so he does not often use this gift. Mostly, he uses it when accompanying himself when he plays his violin and summons arcane impressions from within the haunted valley; for when he softly hums he finds that there is no pain or discomfort.
Black Wings has been publish'd, & gobs of people seem to have copies -- but not me! Hey, I thought the writers were supposed to be the first to get copies of a book, in advance of book sellers and such. Ain't that the way it should be? I feel a bit distracted by this. I read most of the book in the file that S. T. sent as email -- but there were some few tales, by Laird Barron and Michael Shea and a few others, that I want to first read in the actual book. And I want to reread my own tale in hardcover. I confess that I really love reading my own fiction when it is first published in book form. I have a feeling that modesty is suppose to deny me this, or deny me the confession of it. We aren't supposed to enjoy reading our own stuff, just as we aren't supposed to enjoy doing a Google on ourselves and thus seeing what's being said about us. Screw that! Ego is everything. So, yes, I want to feel the weight of Black Wings in my hand, and then I want to turn to my story and read it on the printed page -- and hopefully find the text error-free! Can I confess, once more, how utterly amazing it feels to have a story in this book, the first original anthology edited by the world's leading Lovecraft scholar? I cannot cry loud enough how excellent it feels.
Well, enough talk about writing. I now returnto the actual doing of it.
Peace unto thee, my kindred.