The worst part of writing is discovering how much rewriting awaits you. Right now, only the last few chapters of Exit The Skin Palace need writing. I know what happens. That's about 5% of the battle. Execution is the nitty gritty.
Strangely, over the course of typing madly, the second lead character in Exit has not only switched genders, but has undergone a youth injection - from 60 to late 30s to now late teens. Odder yet, this in no way causes substantial alteration of the plot or her-formerly-his relationship with the narrator.
Lucid remains free for the grabbing. At least until it gets de-listed from BiblioBoard. Then I put the screws to everyone. Charge a whole $.99 for it and help Moby get that space colony built.
Religiously, I check William Gibson's Twitter. Recently, the father of cyberspace was freaked over Brexit. That died down, so now, it's pretty much a stream of Retweets from James Gleick and Paul Krugman and anyone else shitting their pants over the looming election. Trump strikes me as the kind of potentially dangerous cretin Spider Jerusalem would dispatch at the end of a Transmetropolitan story arc. Since Mr. Jerusalem doesn't actually exist, the freak out persists. At least until November.