Word count: 39563 | Since last entry: 891

Kate is in Spokane again this week. Her father had a new plastic lining installed in his abdominal aorta today, and when last we spoke he had come through the surgery okay but they hadn’t yet seen him. He’s expected to come home Thursday, and Kate should be back Friday, subject to the usual uncertainties. I miss her.

Two people who know a little something about having new linings installed are friends Jerry and Suzle, from Seattle, who called up on the spur of the moment on Saturday (Kate was still here then) to say that they were in town and would we like to have dinner? We were just about to boil some potatoes for salmon hash, but I want to live in the kind of world where friends can just pop in on each other on short notice, so we turned off the stove and had a nice Middle Eastern dinner at Karam downtown. Too bad we didn’t remember that it was the night of the Starlight Parade. But we did find parking eventually. And we had the salmon hash the next day, and it was delish.

I was a bad bad writer in May. I wrote on only five days in the whole month. I also traveled to Palm Springs, New York, and Denver, but still. So I have made a new resolution: to write every single day in June, at least a hundred words a day (though I’m going to have to average over 200 words a day for the next 10 days to finish this chapter in time for the next crit group meeting). So far, so good. I’m also going to try to go to the gym three times a week, but frankly that’s more negotiable.

I received my author copy of Israeli magazine The Tenth Dimension, with the Hebrew translation of “Titanium Mike Saves the Day” and five cool illustrations. Looks like they got five different artists to illustrate Mike in each of the five scenes of the story — each the same pose, but they’re all different, and charmingly childlike. Very apropos.

On the downside, my first novel has now been rejected by every one of the big New York publishers that might reasonably be expected to want it. It is now in submission to one of the smaller genre presses. I do hope it finds a home soon. I’m also jealous of people who are at Rio Hondo or Blue Heaven this week and next.

Oh well. I try to distract myself by writing on the new novel. A snippet:

As near as Keelie could tell, Rachel herself spoke only one language. This baffled her. Everyone spoke at least Argot, and probably one or two other trade languages, in addition to their own language or languages.

But Rachel depended on the machine, and kept holding it in front of Keelie’s face, its surface blinking with sixtyfours of different kinds of marks. Keelie knew what writing was, but it was opaque to her — teaching a slave to read was a whipping offense.

She swore in frustration.

And the machine spoke…