I had to go cold turkey with the Robitussin. The sunlight was starting to feel like molasses on my skin, heavy, holding me to the ground. And, the high (and please note, medically unnecessary) dosage of guafenisin sulfate (an expectorant a.k.a. spit-loosening med) had me hawking up liquefied lung.
Strangely enough, I’m eating a cold turkey sandwich right now. The soda I’m chasing it with doesn’t have the satisfying, syrupy kick of Robi, but it’ll do. It’ll do. (subject sighs, twitches, prays he develops a cold).
On the upside, within eight days of writing this entry, the initial draft of Siren Promised will be complete. There are thirteen chapters in all (they’ve even been placed in sequential order), and I’m very excited about the project. I know, I know, even parents with ugly babies are proud, but there’s something about this little novel that has me more jazzed than Bob Fosse.
In other writing news, I sold a story to a magazine that’s suspending printing indefinitely, and was short listed for an anthology that’s been "round filed" by the publisher due to a merger.
The charms of publishing are a wondrous multitude.
On the flipside, Pain and Other Petty Plots continues to put the critics in a critically wowed condition (do you ever type a sentence just to amuse yourself?). Cemetery Dance #43 even features two very positive reviews, one of which contains the sentence "’Amniotic Shock in the Last Sacred Place’ spotlights a horror-filled pediatric wing that Jeremy Robert Johnson has now seared into my mind forever." You should know that I used to read CD under the covers, with a flashlight, back when I was a wee laddie. So, you can guess how great it was to see my name, in a positive context, in the hallowed pages where I first discovered Ed Gorman, Joe Lansdale, etc.
The ego had briefly gone interstellar. I was so excited I put down my bottle of Robi and took a shower. It was glorious.
I’ve become inane. Thus, I bid you adieu. Which is French, I think, for "goodbye". Or perhaps, knowing the French, "go away".