Today I booked a car for when I'm in Vegas in a month's time, since me and C are driving to LA for laughs. You can see more of a place in a car than you can in a plane, I figure, even if you're just going through desert. Everyone keeps telling me what an evil place Vegas is too. Everyone except A. She tells me it's everything about America thrown into one bright, undying spot. She recently married a nice British girl and is living in France now, is A, and maybe the French surrounding her explains the comment. But then, like the whole waking up late bit, probably not. At any rate, in three or so weeks I'll be in the States, doing my one con every five years thing at WFC, and there's some kind of Australian consulate party before that, which thankfully, I'm skipping. Every now and then a bit of info floats my way about the Australian Group doing This or That and part of me thinks that you don't spend twenty-four hours trapped in a tiny space to cross international borders so you can hang out with people you can see without that trip, but perhaps that's just the cynic in me speaking. Perhaps people network better in a group. Perhaps some kind of Australian group think happens. Who knows. It's not like I'm ignoring them anyway, so maybe I'll Australian it up for the time I'm there and drink beer, offer to throw boomerangs, and talk about how under appreciated local authors are to people who don't give a shit.
I have spent my morning cleaning up my CV, since, though self employed, I figured I'd put it in for casual tutoring at Universities. Doesn't hurt to keep that sort of thing fresh, and the money for that is good, and on short term periods. Worse comes to worse, I'll hear nothing, or I'll get an offer and turn it down if it doesn't suit me. Part of what I'm doing, however, is updating my publications list. I've been doing this, one way or another, since I left High School at the end of 1994. That's a fair chunk of my life. In that time, I've managed to sell forty one short stories, two novels, and one chapbook. Some of it shit, some of it not. I've written reviews, poetry, comics, even scripts. Some of it published, some of it made, some of it not. I've tried for cash, I've tried for art, and I've tried to say something I felt. At one stage, I reckon I've done all them things. Yet, I show up at places to give lectures and workshops and I'm Dr. Peek, the author of Twenty-Six Lies/One Truth and Black Sheep, and it all sounds a little bit silly, as if no one fully understands the context behind those words. It's not a complaint, mind you. It's just that when you see who you are on paper, you think it ought to mean something, or that the books got published in the country I live in, or that they were read widely and appreciated by a vast range of people, like you think all books are when you first start reading. There is, thankfully, a diversity to the people who are here at this blog, and who read my stuff, so that's good, but there's always a struggle for readers. I know the numbers of the books I sell. I'm always struggling for new readers--but then that's no different to people with distribution, with big publishers, with fat cash advances. It's just the numbers that change.
I'm listening to the Jesus and Mary Chain as I type this. Tomorrow, thirty-one. It's all cool. There are places to go, things to do, goals to be reached. I got no complaints.