I was out last night for a beer with sck5000, following a long day's paralysis. I tried to describe yesterday's frustrations, saying, "My hands literally started to shake when I tried to type," adding that it was especially vexing because, "The fucking thing is 90% done, just needs a little cutting and some re-working."
In retrospect, I don't think my hands did "literally" shake, but it felt true when I said it. But there you have it, and here I am, still delaying what should be the end of an easy job.
Despite the lack of a Morning Pages entry today, I did do one, only it threatens to turn into a story, so I've make it private, if only for the time being.
While not writing today, I finished reading Julie Phillips' superb biography of the noted SF writer, James Tiptree, Jr.. Tiptree was in fact a woman named Alice B. Sheldon and one who - unlike most writers - also led a remarkably interesting life (and death).
I am not now, nor ever was a Tiptree "fan", but I had read and been impressed by a number of her stories, and read a never of very good reviews of Phillips' book when it was published in hardback last year. I stopped in at Bakka-Phoenix last week, saw that it was now in paperback and snapped it up.
It certainly deserves the National Book Critics Circle Award it won. This is biography as it is supposed to be written. Honest and non-judgemental about the subject's life, and never giving in to the temptation to melodrama, it is also socialogically penetrating and Phillips has a good critic's ear for Tiptree's fiction.
If I can force myself to get town to my own work, I may go out a little early and try to draft a real review before I meet vernski later this evening.
Which, yes, means it's time for Young Geoffrey to shut up and Face the Essay.
Wish me luck.