It’s nearly five o’clock and I’m still in my pajamas. And I’ve been up since seven. I was going to do laundry but we’re out of laundry detergent and I was going to run and get some, but I’m still in my pajamas. The dog is washed, though, which is a minor victory.
Otherwise, here’s what I’ve been up to–writing an introduction for and formatting an interview I’m really excited about, writing a post for Pith, eating lunch, and then finishing up a rough draft of the October thing. It’s going to need a good reworking, just because there are times when the language is a little too Lovecraftian and it’s hard to believe that someone who knows who Stephen King is and where he got his pot in Middle Tennessee would spend as much time finding things horrible and frightening and speaking as stiltedly as he does. But that’s easily enough smoothed over.
I think it stands just fine as a story even if you don’t know the Lovecraft connection and, if you do, I hope you’ll find that to be an especially tasty treat.
Did I tell you it’s about the Allens? I can’t remember. About a lost brother of the Gallatin Allens who unfortunately builds his house on top of the grave of a Deraque garou, in this case Jean Deraque, father of our friend Joseph.
Here’s how it ends, well, at least in this draft:
I still have wolfish-dreams, dreams that I am being pursued by a thing, something like a cross between a bear and a wild hog and a wolf and a mountain lion. But my father assures me that this is another family matter, a separate problem unique to the Allens, long left in the past, nothing to worry about. And, as long as I don’t dream in French or wake to small scratches or bite marks, I shall continue to believe him.
I’m not saying that the Allens appear to attract supernatural problems. I’m just saying that, if I were an Allen, I’d be growing some wolfsbane.