Caitlín R. Kiernan

Yesterday was actually a very good writing day, the sort of writing day I wish I had more often. The fourteenth and final section of "Bainbridge" came out easy as you please. I'd thought it would only be two or three hundred words long, but it had other ideas. So I did 1,358 words on the story yesterday and finished (which you already know from last night's addendum). I suppose it really is a novella (or novelette) now instead of a "mere" short story. The word count stands at 15,598, which comes out to a whopping 70 typescript pages. This morning, I need to send it out to a couple of my "first" readers and to Ted, so he can get started on the last of the Alabaster illustrations. But it's still a little rough 'round the edges, and when I come back from my two days off (which begin as soon as I deal with e-mail), I'll read through it and make whatever changes need making. They're very minor. I don't write true first drafts, not usually. Once the polish is done, it may be a hundred words longer or a hundred words shorter, but essentially the same. I very much like how this story has turned out — I think. The beginning of The Larger Story, which will fall at the end of the collection, which makes my inner anti-linear narrator jump for joy.

All of January I shall edit. "Bainbridge" and the rest of Alabaster. And Daughter of Hounds. Sigh.

There's still confusion over this business with Amazon.com offering Murder of Angels for $4.99. Despite what my editor was told yesterday by Amazon — that no one has been able to buy it for that price — the_final_woman reports that she did. This morning, the "Bargain" price page is showing no copies remaining for sale at $4.99, but if you search for MoA, a second page comes up, wherein the book is listed at its actual price ($11.20 after Amazon's discount). So, it's like this. Click here to go to the screwed up page that shouldn't exist, or click here to go to the genuine page. Someday, all this will make sense. And pigs will fly.

Instead of letting me collapse on my face last night and peacefully drown in my own drool, Spooky lured me into the living room by waving Season Two of Battlestar Galactica beneath my nose. Nothing brings me back to life like good space opera. And that's what Battlestar Galactica is, despite what the creators might say from fear of the wrath of Bonnie Hammer and the SFC suits. It's very, very good space opera. We made it through the first four episodes, and I was in no way disappointed (though there was that one short scene lifted almost shot for shot from the opening of Apocalypse Now, but we'll just call that homage). The series' willingness to get down and dirty, to let the blood flow and put the hurting on characters you've come to care about is commendable. Never in a zillion years would I have believed that the rebirth of Battlestar Galactica would be a good thing, which just goes to show me that I don't yet know everything. I do think, though, that there's a curious and fundamental difference between the new Battlestar Galactica and my dear, departed Farscape. I would argue that Farscape was character driven (and sometimes seemed a bit confused about story), while Battlestar Galactica is story driven. At least, this was the case with Season One. In the four episodes last night, I think the writers finally began to open the characters up a little more. For example (SPOILER), the scene where "Sharon" dies in the Chief's arms — wow. Beautifully, beautifully done. We shall watch the next four episodes tonight (along with Project Runway, of course).

Oh, and I just have to give you this link to a National Geographic article which recounts how the new Cretaceous Australian monotreme, Kryoryctes cadburyi, got its species name. It involves a cubic meter of chocolate.

Okay. Now I take care of e-mail. Then I go to the aquarium and spend the day at the bottom of the sea...