greygirlbeast: (Chi and Aeryn)


My black out begins now. Props to Wikipedia et al. Glad tomorrow is a school day; help drive the message home. Unless Wikipedia is blocked...for boobs and sex and stuff.
greygirlbeast: (Jayne Dork)


You might not believe it, but Spooky and I sing this all the time.

Also, Space Ghost will forever remind me of my time in Death's Little Sister, as practice sessions were often interrupted by marathon Space Ghost viewings (with beer). And I just remembered that we were known around Athens as Dead Baby Sitter, which was really a much cooler name.

Also also, I had a crush on Zorak (the Lone Mantis of the Apocalypse).
greygirlbeast: (Pagan1)
It seems impossible that this can be the Summer Solstice already. We've hardly had a whiff of summer in Providence. Hardly a whiff. And I'm so weighted down with the Tired and with deadlines that we've not had time to plan a ritual for this evening. Last year, we had such a wonderful Solstice on the rocks just north of Beavertail. I was hoping for a repeat this year. Anyway, one of the advantages of venerating all the nonconscious aspects of the Cosmos is knowing how indifferent the universe is to our little observances, and how it will take no notice whatsoever should we miss one, here or there. Panthalassa will not frown. Ur will not look askance. But I'll miss the ceremony, as it so helps my mind and my sense of the passing of time, ticking off these points along the wheel of the year. I do wish a fine Solstice to those who observe the day.

Anyway...

No writing yesterday. Not on four measly hours of sleep. Instead, we drove up to Boston. Ostensibly, to look for the tree that will be the Red Tree in the book trailer for The Red Tree. But, in fact, we mostly just wandered up and down Newbury Street and across Boston Commons and the Public Gardens. It was all rather splendid, a part of Boston I'd not seen. A place I wish I could live, where the past does not seem so entirely past. There are still vestiges of civilization showing through the grime of modernity, there on Newbury Street. You just have to peer past the people and the trendy shops and the trendier cafés. We overheard someone talking about rent on Newbury, $2600 (!!!) a month for an apartment. Only the rich can afford those particular vestiges. I shall have to be content with my rooms in this 1875 house here on Federal Hill. Yesterday, the weather was curious. The sky threatened thunder storms all day, but there wasn't even a drop of rain. Muggy, but no rain. An old man on the sidewalk played "All Along the Watch Tower" on an electric guitar, and it was wonderfully eerie. On the Commons, we watched squirrels and birds, and found a "dawn redwood" (Metasequoia) growing among the willows. In that city of overpriced everything, I was pleased to see that the boat rides (the swan boats that first began running in 1877), were only $2.75. We didn't go, though. Maybe next trip up. After Newbury Street, Spooky drove up to Cambridge and Harvard Square, and I saw the little cemetery that's mentioned in "Spindleshanks (New Orleans, 1956)," but we were too tired to stop.

Truthfully, my goddamn rotten feet made the whole day rather miserable, despite the wonderful sights. I'm reaching the point where the walking stick isn't sufficient, and may soon be resorting to a wheelchair for such things as wandering around Boston for hours at a time (almost three miles). I miss the days when I could walk and walk and walk, with hardly an ache at all. I miss dancing even more. I don't think I've really danced since November 2004. Between my feet and the seizures, I feel I've aged twenty years in the last five. There is no romance in invalidism, and I do not welcome this weakness. Anyway, we made it back home by about 8 p.m. We watched a couple of episodes of The X-Files and Howard Hawks' His Girl Friday (1940).

There are photos from yesterday (behind the cut):

20 June 2009 )


---

Cliff Miller writes, "There was a fire at the Georgia Theatre in Athens, causing heavy damage. I wondered if you had any memories of that place from your days in Athens that you might wish to share on the LJ?"

I heard about the fire at the Georgia Theater a couple of days back, and it saddened me enormously. I spent a lot of time at the Georgia Theater between 1994 and 1997. It's here I heard Concrete Blonde play, and met Johnette Napolitano (the same weekend I met [livejournal.com profile] docbrite). Death's Little Sister once played there, opening for someone (though I can't recall for whom). I'm glad to hear they plan to rebuild, but, of course, it'll never be the same.

---

I've begun tweeting the micropreview of The Red Tree over at greygirlbeast. The plan was to post a sentence a day, until the book is released on August 4th. Of course, I immediately realized that 140 characters won't accommodate many of those sentences. Today, for instance, I was only able to post the first three quarters or so of the first sentence. So, this is going to be a strange affair, indeed.

Please, if you haven't already, have a look at the current eBay auctions, all proceeds earmarked to help offset the cost of my attending ReaderCon 20 in July.

And, with that, the platypus says its time to get my skinny ass to the word mines....
greygirlbeast: (chi3)
I think I'm simply going to stop trying to sleep. I'll avoid the nightmares, and won't have to complain about insomnia.

All of yesterday was spent proofing and editing "The Belated Burial" and "The Thousand-and-Third Tale of Scheherazade" for Sirenia Digest #38, and laying out the issue. And I might have even gotten it out to subscribers last night, except I discovered that a file I needed for the issue was in our storage unit in Pawtucket, so we had to stop everything and make the drive to Pawtucket to retrieve the file. Finally, at seven p.m. last night, I admitted it would be today before #38 was released.

We still have a lot of snow on the ground. And a lot of slush and ice. A whole month of snow. But there were some beautiful sights on the drive yesterday. Old North Burial Ground in Providence was splendid in all that white, the gravestones and monuments standing out in sharp relief. In Pawtucket, we stopped on Roosevelt Avenue and walked back to the Main Street Bridge (circa 1858) to get photographs of Slater's Mill and the Blackstone River in all the snow. Slater's Mill (which gets a brief mention in The Red Tree) is often cited as the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution in America. Built in 1793, it was the the first commercially viable cotton-spinning mill in the US. The sidewalks along Main and Roosevelt were icy and flanked by three-foot mounds of muddy, sandy slush, but the day was warmer than our days have been, and I couldn't resist stopping for a better look. There are photos below, behind the cut.

We've found someone here in Providence to convert the Death's Little Sister tracks (I only have them on cassette) to mp3s. And I'm choosing pieces to read for the podcasts. Someone yesterday suggested "vlogging," rather than simple audio recording. I'd never even heard of "vlogging." I'm going to stick to audio, I think. I can't imagine how perfectly, dreadfully dull it would be to watch me reading text off my iMac. I worry enough about how I sound, without also having to worry about how I look.

Remember when writers just, you know, wrote?

January 30, 2009 )
greygirlbeast: (Blood elf 2)
An especially unnerving dream this ayem, and I've not been this dreamsick in——I don't know——weeks. I'm trying to focus on the sunlight in my office, the music, the coffee, these words. Anything but the events of the goddamn dream.

I think the micro-vacation has turned into a nano-vacation, as I'm going to spend today assembling Sirenia Digest #38. This month, subscribers get two new stories, "The Thousand-and-Third Tale of Scheherazade" and "The Belated Burial," and, the former will have an illustration by Vince. This is, you'll remember, the Edgar Allan Poe tribute issue, so there will also be art by Harry Clarke, I think, and there might be a very special surprise. I hope to get the issue out to subscribers before midnight tonight. If you are not a subscriber, that's easily enough remedied. Just click here.

The recent short interview I gave regarding A is for Alien, to SCi Fi Wire/Tor.com, will be up on February 2nd, I think; I'll post the link as soon as I have it.

As for yesterday, I spent most of it in bed. We watched Wes Anderson's Bottle Rocket (1996). Anderson is one of my favourite living directors, but I'd never seen Bottle Rocket (and still haven't seen Rushmore [1997]). Anyway, I loved the film, which is no surprise. The man is frakking brilliant. Also, I got some reading done: comic strips by Windsor McKay, papers in the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology. I didn't sleep, which had sort of been the plan. Spooky got takeaway wonton soup for lunch, from our regular Chinese place. There was a small seizure, which, of course, did nothing to make me less exhuasted. Then, last night, I got back to WoW after mostly avoiding it the last couple of weeks. Shaharrazad made Level 57, and earned the "accomplishment" for completing 500 quests. Mostly, I've had her running low-level missions to become exalted with Undercity. I am not a power leveler. I figure by the time Spooky and I finally finish The Burning Crusade, we'll be able to pick up Wrath of the Lich King dirt cheap. June or July, maybe. After WoW, there was some good rp in Second Life, my paraplegic vampire. And after that, I went to bed, but proceeded to watch two episodes from Season Two of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. This is called avoiding sleep.

I think I've decided to proceed with the podcast idea. Likely, I'll record two or three stories from early issues of Sirenia Digest. I'll first make one available exclusively to subscribers for free, then offer them all via iTunes. Also, I'm going to have someone local make mp3s of all the old Death's Little Sister recordings, and get those up on iTunes (more as a curiosity than anything else).

And now, it's time to start assembling the Digest.

They're starting to open up the sky.
They're starting to reach down through.
And it feels like we're living in that split-second
Of a car crash.
And time is slowing down.
(NIN, which I quote here against the goddamn dream)
greygirlbeast: (Amano)
Ten years tonight was the very last Death's Little Sister show, at the 40-Watt Club in Athens. Cover was $4. We played two new songs. I've been suprisingly weirded out by this all day long. I pulled out an old notebook, the one I wrote lyrics in, some old fliers, tapes, etc. An odd mix of nostalgia and sadness and relief. It doesn't seem possible that was an entire decade ago. Anyway, just marking time...

The lyrics to this Muse song have been runing though my head all day long:

Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations
greygirlbeast: (Default)
Yesterday was not so bad as days off go. Not so good, either. Just a day off. I might have had a good walk, except for the constant rain and the cold weather. We spent most of the day finishing Ironweed, which is at least as fine as I had remembered it being. Later, I collapsed in front of the television and watched. The new episode of Battlestar Galactica was nice. I felt it was losing steam for a while there, but it seems to have found its footing again. Saw the first ep of The Dresden Files, for which I'd had no expectations, and found it was actually pretty good, in a Joss Whedon/Hellblazer rip-off kind of way.It could have potential, if SciFi gives it a chance to grow. These days, few things or people get a chance to grow. We are all expected to hit the ground running, hot shit from day one, blockbuster or nothing.

Today, the weather remains bleak. At least the sun will be back tomorrow, even if the cold temps are gonna stick around.

I erred yesterday when I listed Tales from the Woeful Platypus as one of the books included in the subpress benefit 25%-off sale. For this I apologize.

Also, as long as I'm correcting myself, I said something here a few days back, probably in the comments section, to the effect that "Twelve Nights After" had not appeared on "Three Regrets and a Curse," the Death's Little Sister cassette from 1996. Wrong. I don't know what's up with my memory these days. "Twelve Nights After" did, in fact, appear on the tape.

Here's a new update on Daughter of Hounds (order now!!) from one Barnes and Noble in the Midwest, courtesy [livejournal.com profile] corucia:

I was back at the Barnes & Noble I mentioned previously, and did a quick survey for CRK books. The main science fiction section had been restocked; it still has DoH face-out, with two copies, and also had two copies of Threshold (I purchased the last one they had last week). The DoH display on the New Paperbacks table by the door was gone. However, you have a fan on staff at this B&N, as DoH was one of the two dozen 'Staff Picks' books - they're all set face-out on an aisle end a few rows in from the main entrance. So, all in all, still a good showing at this B&N.

I can only hope similar scenarios are being played out across the country. Oh, and this just in from my editor at Penguin: More great news! Daughter of Hounds is still riding high at #32 on the [B&N] SF/F trade list.

Only nine days remaining until Imbolc. Even if it's only a symbolic heralding of spring (which might yet be a month or two away), it's better than nothing. Better than January. Lately, my thoughts are much occupied with magick, dreams, a personal inability to establish or define a reference point for Reality, and the primacy of Nature. I need to push away this stagnation. I need to push away. I realized last night that I've stopped talking about magick and neopaganism in the journal. That might be for the best.

Anyway, time to start this day. Back to work, though not yet back to writing. Other writing-related things must be attended to this day. Which means I get to wrestle with eBay and PhotoShop for the next few hours. Yippee.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
Only 1,524 words yesterday. A mere "That'll do, pig." But. Truth be told, I have worn myself raggeder with the 1,500 words a day foolishness. But I have also accomplished what I set out to do. So, I shall finish a chapter today, and that will make twenty consecutive days for which I have at least 1,500 words (even tho' one of those days, Tuesday the 9th, had to draw upon the Word Bank because of insomnia). I doubt I've ever done that in my whole writing career. I've written 30,671 words in only nineteen days, plus whatever I do today to make twenty. However, before anyone takes all this the wrong way, it's only a subjective victory, only a victory because I say so. I do not know if I'll ever do this again (but I might), because I know that I, personally, write better when I write slowly. Anyway, I think I may have tomorrow off. It's tempting to try to reach my original goal of 31 consecutive days, and after today I will have only eleven to go, just eleven, but I'm really exhausted and this is just the tip of the iceberg. I can only stretch myself so thin. A day off would be nice, after twenty days without, without an L on the engagement calendar, without a sick day, without a day when the words simply would not come, whatever. It's been kind of nice, just not my cup of tea. I fear I like being a tortoise.

I'm very much not awake.

There was other work yesterday, and then we went to Videodrome because there was nothing suitable from Netflix for Kindernacht. We got two British documentaries, one on Joy Division and another on Kate Bush, and decided we were having Cool '80s Kid Night, instead of Regular Cheesy Movie Kid Night. Oh, and a box of Cap'n Crunch cereal, because it makes our mouths bleed. Later, we began reading William Kennedy's superb Ironweed. I first read this novel in the fall of 1988, and right now I'm more in the mood to read books I know are brilliant than take a chance on those which might disappoint me. So, yeah, Francis Phelan and Albany and Cap'n Crunch in bed (dry, straight from the box). And Spooky started something about getting a parrot, and I said, yeah, but we would only let it hear Kate Bush singing "Wuthering Heights," the original version, and Spooky started doing "Wuthering Heights" in her parrot voice. I laughed so hard I thought I would barf Cap'n Crunch all over the bed. Then I read some more of Willis Conover's Lovecraft at Last, because I couldn't go to sleep. That was yesterday.

Though I do often see comments from my readers, stuff in people's LJs and blogs and such, I am not usually moved to comment upon them. And when I do, it's usually because they've pissed me off. However, [livejournal.com profile] stsisyphus has written a review of Daughter of Hounds that has to be one of the absolute best reviews anyone has ever written of any of my novels. You can read it here. I even agreed with the one fault he found, that there should have been more of Saben White, that she did indeed need more characterization. For now, I shall consider this the definitive Daughter of Hounds review, and I only wish that all pro reviewers could be half so articulate and insightful. I learned things about the book reading this review, which, of course, is how it ought to work. If you've not read the novel, there might be spoilers, but nothing too major, I think. Thank you, [livejournal.com profile] stsisyphus.

Also, a nice e-mail from yesterday, from Gregory Fox:

In your most recent livejournal entry you remark upon how you dislike the act of writing. I'd like to say that I, for one, appreciate you suppressing your aversion and producing what is, in my opinion, some of the finest fiction of our time. Other writers may have a higher level of name recognition, but I find that no other (living, at least) is able to apply such a stranglehold to my attention. The realities to which you give life are a pleasure to explore. I hope that you will not become discouraged, and continue writing well into the future. Also, I'd like to thank you for reporting on your experience at the Harvard Museum of Natural History this past summer. After reading your entries, I decided to visit the museum for myself and found it to be a most enjoyable experience. The giant ground sloth skeleton is—and likely will remain—one of the coolest things I've ever seen. Thanks again, and, please, carry forward with the writing.

Oh, there was another cool thing yesterday. Chris Ewen, he of Future Bible Heroes, sent me the cover of "Twelve Nights After" he's produced for a side project called The Hidden Variable. "Twelve Nights After" is one of the songs I wrote in 1996 for Death's Little Sister, and what Chris has done, it's not really a cover, per se, because he's written new music for it. It's a whole new beast built around my words. The vocals were provided by Malena Teves. What she's done with the song is very different from what DLS did with it. It was this crunchy bass guitar driven murder ballad, with my snarling, growling, spitting vocals, and this version is deceptively ethereal and fey, synth driven and New Wavey. Deceptive because the lyrics are just as nasty as they ever were. And I think it's probably better than how DLS did the song. You can see lots of photos of Malena on her website, but because I think she's such a total hotty (and I'm such a letch), I'm gonna be gratuitous and post one here, as well (behind the cut):

Malena Teves )


The Hidden Variable will also include songs written by (in alphabetical order) Poppy Z. Brite, Emma Bull, Charles de Lint, Neil Gaiman, Shelley Jackson, Harvey Jacobs, Gregory Maguire, China Miéville, Lemony Snicket, Martha Soukup, and Peter Straub. I'll post more on the CD when I have more to post.

This has gone on much longer than I intended, as is usually the way of things. I must go make words (also the usual way of things).
greygirlbeast: (mirror)
I think this may be a Day of More Than One Entry. It feels that way.

A good Samhain and a good Halloween. But we had a lot less trick-or-treaters than last year, which was kind of annoying, as last year we had too many trick-or-treaters and almost not enough candy, so this year Spooky stocked up on the candy, and Hannah brought even more, and now we have a great surplus of confections that neither I nor Spooky can be trusted not to consume. Argh. Damned brats! Maybe we'll take it to over the Junkman's Daughter or A Capella Books. Those poor people need candy much worse than we. Which is to say (glancing at my belly), I need it not at all.

We spent much of the day decorating the porch and carving pumpkins and getting dressed and made up and other such endeavors as are appropriate to the day. I did the elf thing again. I think a definite character is beginning to emerge from my flirtations with elfinesss. At some point last night, a rather drunken woman, dressed as a "soccer mom" and ushering a herd of children about, made a show of trying to remember the name of the elf she thought I was supposed to be — "You know, from that movie." In her state, she could not recall The Lord of the Rings, much less the names of elves. Finally, I let her off the hook, because she was really becoming annoying, and said, "Arwen Evenstar." And she was delighted she'd guessed correctly, even though she hadn't technically guessed anything. Then I turned to Jim and said, "But I'm not Arwen Undómiel. I'm the bitch who took the one ring when Galadriel wouldn't. And there will be Wal-Marts in Gondor!" It was that sort of evening. Spooky had let her horns grow all week. She usually keeps them filed down to nubs. She tried to convince Jim and Hanah and Byron that she was only in "costume" as a demon of some sort, but we all know better.

After the trick-or-treaters died off to a trickle, we went inside for Vincent Price on TCM. What a glorious, campy mess is Roger Corman's Masque of the Red Death (1964). Later, when our company had taken their leave, I ate leftover candy and watched The Fall of the House of Usher (1960), probably my favorite Vincent Price film ever, and the end of a Blue Man Group concert on Georgia Public Television. The latter would have been better had not some utterly horrid woman kept interrupting to ask for pledges. Someone out there needs to show these botox- and plastic-surgery addicted fiends a photograph of a Scarran and ask if the similarity is intentional. Oh, and there was some Samhainy stuff after that, and then bed, and I tried to read but fell asleep almost immediately.

Thanks to Christa ([livejournal.com profile] faustfatale) for pointing me towards Emerson LaSalle's wonderful, wonderful rant about Amazon.com "reviews" and "reviewers," which you can read here. I was especially pleased with his proposal for the model Amazon.com "review":

"Thanks. You worked hard to write a book. I'm impressed. I could never do that in a million years because I'm still trying to understand the difference between imply and infer."

Indeed.

So, anyway, as mentioned earlier, yesterday was the tenth anniversary of the first performance of Death's Little Sister. A whole damn decade. How frelled is that? It seems entirely impossible that so much time has passed and so much has transpired since that freezing night in Athens, Georgia. There were two other bands playing Galaxy 500 that evening, La Guano and Static Lounge, and I cannot remember even the first thing about either of them. I can't even recall the order in which we played. But I was somewhat drunk and sleep deprived and pretty sure we'd get booed offstage. We brought jack-o'-lanterns, and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was projected onto the wall behind us while we played. Our asshole drummer tried to set the stage on fire (he skipped out on us right after the show and was never seen again). After we played, I got about an hour's sleep before driving to Atlanta and flying to Chicago for the '96 World Fantasy Convention. Those were the days. Anyway, here's a gothedy band photo to commemorate the date (behind the cut; the asshole drummer is not in the photo), courtesy Matthew C. Grasse (wherever you are):

A long time ago... )


Okay. Time to write. I'll post a few photos from last night sometime later today, because [livejournal.com profile] stsisyphus was promised pix of me with pointy ears. Meanwhile, any feedback re: Sirenia Digest 11 is, of course, welcomed. Oooh. My ears are still messy from the metamorphosis. Yuck.
greygirlbeast: (chi6)
I thought for sure, yesterday, that I'd find the end of "The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 3)," which will be appearing late this month in Sirenia Digest 11 (please subscribe!). But no. It didn't happen. I did a very respectable 1,684 words on the story, but did not reach THE END. I was still going sometime after seven p.m., when I finally realized my mind was getting blurry and I should wait until today to finish it. The story has just kept unfolding. I think it wants to be 10,000 words long; it's gonna have to settle for about 6,500. But, yeah, the writing went well yesterday. However, this is Day No. 9 since my last day off, and I feel pretty frazzled. Hopefully, I can have the weekend for just me and Spooky and no keyboard in between us.

As I have mentioned here earlier, To Charles Fort, With Love has been nominated for two International Horror Guild awards (the "Iggys") and two World Fantasy awards. Well, actually, the collection as a whole has one Iggy nom and one WFA nom, and "La Peau Verte" also has one of each, for a total of four. Unfortunately, I am unable to attend the WFC in Austin next month, where the award ceremonies will be held. Too much work, and I just can't afford the expense of a con right now, even one so near to hand as Texas. Still, I am very grateful, as that book means a lot to me, and I don't want anyone attending the con to think I'm not there because I don't care, because I do.

Amazon.com has finally added the cover of Daughter of Hounds to the ordering page. I still have mixed feelings about this cover, but hopefully it will lure a lot of eyeballs to the shelves. You can pre-order the novel from Amazon for a mere $11.20 (plus s&h).

Spooky has at last (almost) finished her latest doll, the boy with green hair who brings the amber bottle to Dancy in Savannah (see "Les Fleurs Empoisonnées" in Alabaster). Yes, it will be auctioned on eBay. She has declared this her "second slowest doll ever," as only the Barker took her longer to complete. More details tomorrow.

I think I may be very, very near to unlocking the narrative structure of The Dinosaurs of Mars, which has eluded me for months. I think I've figured out that I'm spending too much time trying to second guess sf reviewers and critics who want cutting edge, socially-relevant sf with no unsightly hints of space opera. But the truth is, I just want to write a novella about the discovery of dinosaur bones on Mars, and about the implications of that discovery back on Earth, with a few gratuitous jabs at UFO nuts, ancient-astronaut cults, and creationists, and have some fun doing it. I need to forget about the reviewers who have me chasing my own tail, the ones who believe that only sf stories concerning the "technological singularity" are the proper concern of contemporary sf. Actually, the singularity is so last week. By now, they've probably moved on to something else. Still, I am writing this story for me. It will not be blistering social commentary or feature startling and accurate predictions about the glorious (or not so glorious) future of humanity or the course of science or The Next Big Thing. It's just gonna be a story I want to write. Bill Schafer called yesterday to ask if I'd started it yet, and I had to say no, that between Tales from the Woeful Platypus and "The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 3)" and all the frelling goddamn second-guessing I've been doing, I'd not yet started the piece. Hopefully, I'll begin it early next week, now that I finally have that last bit, the second-guessing, out of the way.

It occurred to me last night, just before bed, that this Halloween will mark the tenth anniversary of the first Death's Little Sister show, at the long-defunct Galaxy 500 in Athens, Georgia. Ten years. Wow. That seem's absolutely impossible.

The last couple of nights, we've had some beautiful fog. You don't get that much fog around here. It reminds me of Dublin and Rhode Island. I wanted to grab a flashlight, run outside, and play lightsabers (but I didn't — sigh). Anyway, after the writing yesterday, I was so fried (and annoyed I'd not been able to finish the piece) that we dropped by Videodrome and rented Season One of Futurama. We grabbed slices at Fellini's, then I spent most of the evening in front of the TV. I was very pleased with the way things turned out on Project Runway. I was disappointed that Michael didn't have a stronger showing, but Uli and Jeffrey were spectacular. Bring on Season 4! Oh, I did get some reading done, as well; just not enough.
greygirlbeast: (Mars from Earth)
First, a quick update to say that Sirenia Digest 10 has gone away to Gordon ([livejournal.com profile] thingunderthest) for PDFing (good and frelling proper will he PDF it, too!). If all goes well, I believe Spooky's sending it out late this evening. If not, you'll get it early tomorrow. It came to a whopping 33 pages! Not too late to subscribe, you non-subscribed gardas and nixars. Not too late at all.

Sometimes, usually when we're hanging out with Byron and Jim, who are also survivors of Athens, Georgia, and usually when I've been mixing my Guinness and Bass, I start speculating how my life might have gone if I'd not left Death's Little Sister in February 1997. If I'd stayed in the band, taken the musician road instead of the writing road when Silk sold and The Dreaming wanted all my time and I had to make the choice. Most often, we imagine that the band would have survived a year or so, with one disastrous southeastern US tour, before interpersonal problems tore it asunder. Thereafter, sometime in 1998, about the time Silk was published, I'd have formed a second band, Crimson Stain Mystery. Also, by this time the booze and pills and heroin would have begun to take their toll upon my person. But still, CSM would get one indie/college radio hit before it imploded in late 2000. We would have made a video, directed by Athens' own James Herbert. There would have been a lurid three-week affair with (sorry about this) Marilyn Manson before the band, stuck in Japan and sick to death of my wicked ways, reluctantly abandoned me, split, and I ended up in rehab. By 2003, I'd have worked in a couple of Athens record shops before finally becoming a bartender at Lunch Paper and then The Manhattan. I'd still be struggling with the heroin problem, and every now and then I'd write a short story. I'd have a lot of tattoos. And these cassettes (behind the cut) might have existed (thank you Derek [livejournal.com profile] oneirophrenia, for the link):

Might have beens )

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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