I bought Confessions of a Justified Sinner. Looking forward to reading it, I've heard it's essential. People on the "nature of evil" panels that I was on at Readercon were referencing it and I hadn't read it.
But right now I'm reading an erotic novel from the 1740s called Fanny Hill - Memoirs Of A Woman Of Pleasure. It's pretty good. Let me tell you, the literacy level of porn aficionados has apparently declined over the past few centuries.
There should be a grant for New York-based writers and artists who want to move to L.A. but need to buy a car. Wealthy readers, please consider this. Also, there should be an organization that helps wealthy but childless folks redirect their money into grants for writers and artists whose rent and living expenses aren't subsidized by parents. I was walking down the street tonight with ASB and pointed at an apartment building.
"X lives there," I said.
ASB: "He does? In this neighborhood?"
Me: "His parents pay part of it."
ASB: "I hate people whose parents pay their rent."
Me: "If you were wealthy, would you subsidize your kid?"
ASB: "First month's rent, security deposit... no more. Would you?"
Me: "I would buy them a used car if they were moving to L.A."
It's starting to get light outside the window. I've been writing all night. I don't understand how I used to "go out" so much. Or, even worse, "hang out." What the fuck was I doing?