Sipping on echinacea tea. I don’t love it, but there’s a psychosomatic thing going on here. I’m a little bit sick. It makes me feel better.

Another Halloween comes and goes. For once I skip the horned demon thing and have a different sort of fun with makeup. Recalling Helen Shaver in The Believers, I build myself a little spider’s nest on my face using wax, latex, makeup and, of course, little plastic spiders. The effect is a little too horrifying for some people, and I keep forgetting that it’s on my face. One customer at Amoeba tried to tell me what movie he was looking for, but had to wait until he stopped laughing. I almost had to find someone else to help him.

Amoebites dressed up en masse. The most popular costume belonged to Hiland, who dressed up as Annie, complete with frilly socks and color-perfct wig.

Little Orphan Trannie

I haven’t written in over five days. That amount of dead time makes me very cranky. I did, however, have a conversation with my manager last night, the upshot of which is that I really need to finish this damned rewrite of Strange Angels and be done with it. Then I’ll finally have time to spread out all of my other ideas and catalogue them. He and I are both interested in getting me out of the spec market and a little more into the world of script pitching. I’ve easily got a dozen ideas ready for development. I need to organize them, work out some basic plots and file them into my holster.

The only thing standing in my way at this point is a web page I’ve got to throw together for Boss about Icelandic poet, Stein Steinarr. But progress has slowed a little, because of the four thousand fonts I have at my disposal, I can’t select one that suits the guy’s name. Stein Steinarr. Poet. Icelandic.

I need one of those poetic Northland fonts.

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