![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a murder of silhouette crows
Nov. 24th, 2009 11:14 pmNovember 24, 2009 Progress Notes:
"When Your Number Isn't Up"
Words today: 300.
Words total: 1600.
Reason for stopping: It sweated me tonight. And the teapot's empty.
Darling du Jour: O'Shaughnessy Drug opened early on weekdays for the red-eye crowd: gamblers and confidence men and tired cleaning women in faded blue dresses, slurping coffee before the trip uptown.
Mean Things: Botched suicides and bad, sad, tired neighbourhoods.
Research Roundup: What magnesium smells like, 1940s chewing tobacco brands, 1949 crime stats, 1940s cleaning woman uniforms, Rita Hayworth (photo reference).
Books in progress: A.M. Dellamonica, Indigo Springs.
The glamour: Dayjob in extremis. And then some pasketti. And sending a story acceptance for Ideo, which is always fun.
Okay, I don't know how long this'll actually turn out to be? But I think it gets its own tag and icon now. Backtagging/iconing will commence shortly, and let's all be thankful for the miracle of the Internet, which lets me find good 1940s photos for my icons. I still need to dredge up another one or two good melancholy, Tom Waits-esque rain-at-midnight fedora-pulled-down noir songs for the soundtrack, but it'll probably keep for another night.
All other news is scattered and quotidian: I have a pomegranate, and it's misty enough out that I can't see past a block out the window, and I'm inexplicably homesick for decades I never lived in. My kingdom for a brownstone apartment above College Street in 1947 or so, with hand-painted store signs and double-ended streetcars and good hats back in fashion.
The homesickness might be the fault of the pomegranate. They're good for things you can't have, or aren't even sure why you want, or which live in black and white.
Heh. I am become maudlin. Guess that's a sign to call it a night.
"When Your Number Isn't Up"
Words today: 300.
Words total: 1600.
Reason for stopping: It sweated me tonight. And the teapot's empty.
Darling du Jour: O'Shaughnessy Drug opened early on weekdays for the red-eye crowd: gamblers and confidence men and tired cleaning women in faded blue dresses, slurping coffee before the trip uptown.
Mean Things: Botched suicides and bad, sad, tired neighbourhoods.
Research Roundup: What magnesium smells like, 1940s chewing tobacco brands, 1949 crime stats, 1940s cleaning woman uniforms, Rita Hayworth (photo reference).
Books in progress: A.M. Dellamonica, Indigo Springs.
The glamour: Dayjob in extremis. And then some pasketti. And sending a story acceptance for Ideo, which is always fun.
Okay, I don't know how long this'll actually turn out to be? But I think it gets its own tag and icon now. Backtagging/iconing will commence shortly, and let's all be thankful for the miracle of the Internet, which lets me find good 1940s photos for my icons. I still need to dredge up another one or two good melancholy, Tom Waits-esque rain-at-midnight fedora-pulled-down noir songs for the soundtrack, but it'll probably keep for another night.
All other news is scattered and quotidian: I have a pomegranate, and it's misty enough out that I can't see past a block out the window, and I'm inexplicably homesick for decades I never lived in. My kingdom for a brownstone apartment above College Street in 1947 or so, with hand-painted store signs and double-ended streetcars and good hats back in fashion.
The homesickness might be the fault of the pomegranate. They're good for things you can't have, or aren't even sure why you want, or which live in black and white.
Heh. I am become maudlin. Guess that's a sign to call it a night.
