It is, you know. Sweet and spicy and warmer than the day was. My cat won't come inside.
I will be meeting with my writing group in a couple of weeks. So that I don't show up pantsless, I need to take an inventory:
Short stories accepted for publication:
"The Tongue of Bees"
"The Duellist, After Her Prime"
First drafts complete:
"Who in Mortal Chains"
Back to the drawing board:
"Bleaker Collegiate Presents an All Female Production of Waiting for Godot"
First drafts in progress:
"A Sovereign Cure for Pneumonia"
"The King of Bramble Heights"
"Forty-Nine Days in the Intermediate States, with Extracts from the Great Liberation by Hearing"
The talking fish story
"Seven Postcards from the Garden of Earthly Delights"
Not-a-Werewolf: halfway through Chapter 5 of what I believe is partial draft 10
Dickensian Fantasy: Chapter 10 of Draft 4 (7 more chapters to go)
If only I felt more like writing. At the moment, after a rather grueling week of looking at the books of others, I only feel like masticating potato chips in front of some Criminal Minds.
In other excellent news, though, I will shortly begin reading slush for Ideomancer.