Story about killing saints is underway, about 600 words written, and the scantiest of plot outlines. But I think I know now what the story is about, what the theme is, what the general world of it feels like, I've got a lot of major incidents sketched out, and so on. I plan to work on it all of today and tomorrow, hoping to get it done by Tuesday at the latest, before the final rush of stories. I've written myself in on the list to cook for the gang on Wednesday. Plan is Coq au Vin and carrot cake again. Nikki cooked for us last night. Absolutely. Superb. Friday is our last official day here. Probably some sort of dinner Saturday night, and I'll leave Sunday 7/18. That'll be it for Clarion, for me, forever. I feel rather like a man whose doctor has given him a week to live. Please straighten your affairs, sir.
There was a party last night. There was much dancing and mirth-making. Crossdressing happened. Tenea lent me a sundress, and Kelly Link lent me a necklace, ring, and clogs, Marjorie lent me a big floppy colorful hat. Tenea got my blue blazer, a button-down shirt and tie. Marjorie made me up, green and purple eye shadow and some glitter on the cheeks. Mascara. I wanted some boobage, but the sundress was too tight. Many photographs were taken. None will be released. For now. We all swore a terrible oath that the first to publish in SCIFICTION... something about Locus... damn, I forget the details. Stupid alcohol. Will someone remind me of the details of our terrible oath about the crossdressing photographs? Thanks.
Some guys look excellent crossdressed, some... don't. Peter had a very convincing David Bowie/Annie Lennox thing going on. On the distaff side, Amelia was very, very hot in a three-piece wool suit and tie. Literally hot, too. The temps were probably in the 80's, as they usually are, so the wool got lost pretty quickly. I was told I looked like someone's mom. Uh, thanks, guys, I was going for the Jackie Kennedy late-1960's look, so, like, crap. Grace was all shiny in PVC, and is reported by reliable sources to have done an exemplary cage dance within an upended bed, however, it was brief, and I missed it.
About halfway through the evening I acquired a black half-mask from Rebecca, somewhat in the style of Pantalone in the Commedia dell'arte. I wore this for the rest of the evening, not speaking, communicating solely by making bird-like motions with my head. This completely creeped out everyone else. Hopefully few photographs of the sexually ambiguous bird-goddess of Clarion exist, and hopefully anyone I hit on while in this condition will have an alcoholic blackout about it.
This morning I am less hung-over than expected.
I now go to lunch, then write-write.