Just made it at the end of the day. Went to a cold but fun Mets game at CitiField (they lost to the Nationals), made it back to the apartment at around 11:30pm and was facing down the novel again at 12:30am. Not a great time to start, but I worked it. I think I dreamt about what I wrote. Not bad, not great, I did my work, and I made my quota. Went to bed around 2am, feeling sick again this morning, and I wonder why.
Amanda (my girlfriend) was looking for a good horror novel to read, and it was depressing because there were so few to recommend to her–and the blurbs on the back of the books didn’t help any. The genre is stuck in its schlocky roots. I mean, I like those schlocky roots, but … we’re not exactly winning anyone over.