Posthuman Blues

Listless evening. I configured my cellphone to send email (10 cents a shot, but hey) and discovered that Barnes & Noble has ceased carrying my Mars book in its warehouses -- not exactly a thrilling revelation on the best of days. However, I'm pleased that Borders still carries it; in fact, I have yet to visit a Borders that doesn't.

I've been struggling with a garden-variety case of writer's block. Fortunately (?) it's not because of a lack of ideas but because I have too many of them. I can't even settle on genre.

Fiction or non-fiction?

Novel, novelette or short-story?

Near-future eco-disaster a la "The Sheep Look Up" or rousing posthuman philosophical thriller -- assuming, for argument's sake, that I'm capable of either?

A publisher has expressed interest in my forthcoming manuscript on alien intelligence (I've been dotingly referring to it as a "unified theory of cybernetics and ufology"). I should probably stick to that, put my science fiction ambitions on hold for the time being.