Kage Baker’s baleful aspect (yeah, she had one of those) is standing behind me, pointing like Longfellow’s spectral Viking at the desk (http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/longfellow/12202), abjuring me to work on TWONG II.
Among the other things I have to do – besides make the corrections Linn-the-agent requested – is attach some of the niceties like a word count, a title page, and a dedication. In this case, I shall be sending a page with a list of potential titles – with thanks to all of you who send me suggestions over the last couple of days. I liked ’em all, personally! I can’t guarantee the publisher will, but giving him options is always a nice touch. Thank you all, Dear Readers!
In the meantime … the temperature is up in the ’80’s again here in Los Angeles, although we are told to anticipate a chance of rain in a couple of days. At the same time, the Santana winds are beginning to blow, and the first tentative brush fires have sparked hither and yon … any one of these phenomena would be normal on its own; the weird part is the rapid and unseasonal progression we are having this Spring.
Still, we aren’t having tornado fronts a mile wide sweeping through our cities here. The Midwest is besieged by weird weather, and I am grateful our own oddities are so far confined to hot weather and late rain. California is still a blessed land in many ways.
In the meantime – I have my porch door open to the lovely afternoon, and the perfumes of hot stone, roses and camphor trees are drifting in. My room had become the pet clubhouse: the little black cat is on my bed where the breeze from the door and the overhead fan can ruffle her tummy fur, Harry is singing softly to himself on his cage by my bed, and the Corgi is whuffling in his sleep in an attempt to convince me he is on duty … even the Elder Cat is dozing in the hall, where she can stare out at the finches playing in the wisteria.
But it’s back to work for me! One edge of my mind is wondering about Denisovans and Neanderthals. Another is at work on TWONG II.
And yet another edge is looking at a rough tent of vizeo set up around the statue of the Marswife in the central plaza of Mars Two. The shelter is using her outstretched arms as supports. Behind the heat-blurred panels, a young woman stares out at the path of the pyroclastic flow that has ripped through the plaza and the edge of the Dome. It’s a few days after the bomb went off in the Olympus Mons Power Plant, and red dust is beginning to obscure dozens of black figures – all with their arms held to their breasts, all with their hands drawn up over their featureless charcoal faces.
There are Mars stories due …