Lots to potentially write about, I suppose, but I've just been kind of muggy the last couple of days. Maybe it's time for a vacation :).

Read VanderMeer's City of Saints and Madmen. If this were an ethnography or some sort of anthropological work, it could be called thick. That's right -- I've now included Marcusian/semi-po-mo jargon into my journal. BTW, that thick thing -- yeah, it's a good thing.

Read Connie Willis' Lincoln's Dreams. The thing about Willis is that she tells a fun, suck you in and not let you go tale that's just pretty much addicting.

I'm also reading Orson Scott Card's Magic Street. I'm disappointed in OSC, who is repeating Enchanted. Most of what I find myself thinking with this new book is, "Didn't I just read this in May?" Also, these last two books seem to be crying for a copyeditor (or someone) to catch some very basic, stupid errors. I'm trying not to assume the writer is getting lazy ... or something.

That's the problem with doing so much writing and critquing. It's hard for me to just lose myself in a book without critting it. Is this what's called an occupational hazard, those of you who are writers?