greygirlbeast: (Default)
Yesterday was a low-yield nuclear device. Yesterday was the best birthday cake imaginable. Yesterday, after much stress and wringing of hands and so forth, I received word that the NEWS THAT IS SO GOOD, SO COOL is actually going to happen. But! No, I cannot tell you what it is, and it may yet be some time (as in, maybe, months) before I can talk about this publicly. So, everyone's gonna have to be patient. Most especially me. Secrets cause me physical pain, and this is a big secret. Anyway, I wanted to say that, but please don't ask me to say more.

Now, I'm thinking about brier patches.

Yesterday, there was far too much tension to write anything, but somehow I managed to do proofreading for Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart, though there was also too much tension to proofread. We made it through "Beatification," "Flotsam," and "Regarding Attrition and Severance." I'm probably giving far too much thought to how these very dark, very sexual stories will be received (On the whole, this batch is quite a bit darker and more "disturbing" than those found in The Ammonite Violin & Others), but it's sort of hard for me not to do that. Fret over their reception, I mean. I keep waiting to be savaged by RadFems or Xtian extremists (the two groups are, actually, almost identical in many respects) or some other bunch of blood-thirsty loons.

Somewhere, a few of you got the impression that Blood Oranges will be published under a pseudonym. Nope. Not the case. If and when I do Blue Canary, the YA book, then I'll be writing as Kathleen Tierney. But that has nothing to do with Blood Oranges, which isn't YA.

And, really, I think that's all for now.

In Unexpected Brevity,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (white)
Yesterday, I wrote 3,243 words on Chapter 7 of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. Which makes yesterday my best day ever in terms of word count, with at least three hundred words to spare. I truly didn't think I'd be able to pull it off, but I did, and in only five hours. I suspect I may have been channeling [ profile] matociquala. At any rate, it's nothing I wish to do again any time soon. Considering that my daily average the last few years has been about 1,100 words, I've written almost five days worth of novel in the last two days.

And I'm sick as a sick fucking dog. And I'm not working today. Well, I'm not writing. I may lie in bed and manage some proofreading by having Spooky read to me. But that's different. I actually suck at doing nothing. I've never learned the trick. Which makes being ill difficult. My mind rages on, even when the body would be still. It has to have something upon which to gnaw.

I've not left the house since last Monday evening, the 31st, so I've not been out for seven days. I was doing much better for a while, keeping to my resolution never to stay in for more than four consecutive days. But the novel's been coming so fast, and the weather's been so horrid, the days slip by without my even realizing it.

There's something substantive I want to write, regarding an Amazon "reviewer's" complaint that, in The Red Tree, I harp on Sarah's being a lesbian, and how the complaint reveals just how poorly many straight people understand what it's like to be queer, and how ignorance can quickly become prejudice. But I'm not up to it now. Tomorrow I might be.

Anyway, I will be checking the blog today, so comment if you'd like. Ah, here's something. A number of people have mentioned to me how much they've enjoyed the "Alone" and "CreatureMe" pieces in Sirenia Digest nos. 61 and 62, respectively. The answers that made up those two articles were in response to questions I asked in the blog two years back.'s a challenge. Come up with a new question of the same sort. Something as good as "If I were a summonable monster..." and "What if you had me alone..." Don't worry, you couldn't shock me if you tried. But feel free to try, all the same.

Okay. Gotta go horizontal for a few minutes.
greygirlbeast: (white)
Thought I'd share the gift from [ profile] faustfatale that was waiting for me when I woke up this morning. Pretty much the first thing I saw. Every day should begin that way. Thanks, Iphy.

Oh, it's behind a cut, just in case any folks of the prudish persuasion are lurking hereabouts:

Last chance not to look... )
greygirlbeast: (Ellen Ripley 2)
It's raining here and overcast. The rain came in the night (like Trogdor the Burninator, I suppose —— only wet and cold...and lacking the one big, beefy arm). The temps are in the high forties F, and there might be snow showers tonight and tomorrow. Spooky says it's too early for snow in Providence, but she's already lied about the mooses and the polar bears and the mastodons, so I'm expecting a blizzard. Anyway, the rain is nice. It hides the sky, which has been absolutely crippling in the vasty blueness department of late.

Ernest Hemingway said to write about the weather.

If you've not yet pre-ordered A is for Alien, please do so. Cover by the sublime Jacek Yerka, interior art by Vince Locke, and an afterword by Elizabeth Bear. Remember, the limited comes with a very thick chapbook, B is for Beginnings (which has a cover by Richard A. Kirk). Also, Subterranean Press is now taking pre-orders for the forthcoming trade paperback edition of Alabaster (which will reprint all of Ted Naifeh's artwork from the long-since sold-out hardback edition). I'll plug the Penguin books tomorrow.


I tend to grow complacent. I tend think that I'm rather well versed in perversity and kink. But then, inevitably, I stumble across something unsuspected, something I should have known about, and I am humbled. Or at least astounded. Or amused. For example, given the subject matter of various bits I've written for Sirenia Digest, Frog Toes and Tentacles, and Tales from the Woeful Platypus, I'd expect people to expect me to know about "vore" (shortened from vorarephilia, and see also phagophilia). But you would have been wrong, before yesterday. Here's this whole fetish I missed somehow. Well, no, I didn't miss it. It's all over the stuff I've been writing. I just missed that it was a fetish. I always think these things are just me. This is why we have the internet. The real reason, I mean. So that perverts don't feel so all alone. And perusing websites devoted to the whole vore thing led me to discover "unbirthing," which I find truly fascinating, and which may have inspired a story for Sirenia Digest #35. And, if I temporarily adopt a Freudian worldview, a paradigm generally alien to me, both vore and the unbirthing fixation make perfect sense. What did not, at first, make perfect sense was why the unbirthing fetish is so closely allied with furries. But there might be an odd sort of logic here. A return to the wild combined with a return to the womb, perhaps? Some psychological aspect of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny, or, rather, a sexual manifestation of neotony? But then you run up against the problem that most furries seem fixated not on genuinely becoming less human, in any realistic sense, but with some sort of bent for cartoon animals (anthropomorphic "funny animals," i.e., Mickey Mouse, Daffy Duck, Omaha the Cat Dancer, etc.). And that rather short circuits the explanation, unless one posits that cartoon animals are first encountered when we are very young, and then it all starts to make sense again. Anyway...I ramble. I find it very odd that, these days, it's actually "my job" to think seriously on such matters.


I've been listening to a lot of old R.E.M. lately, and, frequently, it's almost painfully nostalgic. Each album is a different year. Of course, I didn't actually come to R.E.M. until the summer of 1986, when I moved to Boulder, Colorado and discovered college radio. That was the same summer that Life's Rich Pageant was released. It will always be my favourite R.E.M. album, partly because it was my first. And R.E.M. always sound like they're singing about the South, even when, say, they're singing about Guatemala. I'm finding myself inevitably, and somewhat annoyingly, homesick. I am so much better off in Rhode Island than I ever was in the South. It's simply a far more tolerant environment, and, the security guard at Swan Point aside, I've not had a homophobic encounter since we arrived. Oh, I'm sure that I would, if I were not careful about where I go. But in Georgia and Alabama, one could not be careful enough. It was inevitable and frequent (though far less so in the part of Atlanta where we lived). I find myself missing the South. Not so much the people, but the landscape, the history (which is, I suppose, the people), the architecture, the food, the Dinosaur of Sinclair Avenue, magnolias. When this homesickness begins to manifest as physical pangs —— when I'm listening to Fables of the Reconstruction (1985) or Automatic for the People (1992) —— I try to focus sharply on particular unpleasant things: NASCAR, the Confederate battle flag, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the football religion, and so on and on. But. Yes. I will admit it, as much as I love being in New England, and knowing I will never again live in the South, I also admit that I find myself missing the place. I think this might be a weird permutation of Stockholm Syndrome.


I seem to have drifted back towards working on paleontology articles for Wikipedia. For example, day before yesterday, I did this one on the parareptile Colobomycter. And I'm sleeping more than usual, another eight hours last night. I figure it's all part of the post-novelizing thing.

The platypus says it's time to go. And the platypus...well, you know the score.
greygirlbeast: (Bowie1)
It is no secret that I am not a morning person. So, you'd think someone would have gotten around to telling Hubero this. If they did, he's chosen to ignore it. Which is to say, I finally gave up and crawled out of bed at 8 a.m. (CaST, so that's 7 a.m. EST). I sat here at my desk and watched the last bit of night turn to dawn. It was actually a very beautiful sunrise. All those shades of red-orange and purple-grey through the leafless trees. Bleak, but beautiful. I still would have preferred more than five hours sleep, if I'd had any say in the matter. Having distracted Master Hubero, I let Spooky sleep in until a little after ten. She probably needed it worse than I did, anyway.

I wrote 1,441 words yesterday on "Metamorphosis B" and finished it. It somehow manages to be dreadful and sexy at the same time, which pleases me.

Today, I will begin another new piece. All I know right know is that it will not be "Metamorphosis C," and that it's going to be male-on-male, as I've felt like I've owed certain Sirenia Digest readers a little of that flavour for some time now. Thing is, writing erotica the last year and a half, I have discovered something. It is almost impossible for me to write that which is not one of my kinks. And I have quite an enormous range of kinks, but manly man-on-manly man action is not one of them. I can do bois and girlie boys and so forth, but that's about it. Oh, penises are fine and dandy, especially if they wind up doing things evolution never intended them for, but I suck (so to speak) at the whole manly man thing. Which is odd, because all the cisgendered male lovers I've ever had were fairly manly men. At least, they thought so. And yes, I am straying into TMI territory. Sorry. I will return to this topic, this curious contradiction, some other time, perhaps.

Daughter of Hounds has been selling quite well at this weekend. At one point late yesterday, it made it up to 7,497 in the sales ranking, which is the best I've seen it do. My thanks to everyone who's pre-ordered. And if you haven't, the platypus says...well, never mind what the platypus says...but I would be very grateful if you did so. Thanks.

Also, for those who might be interested, please recall that the eBay auction for the last Daughter of Hounds ARC I have to sell ends sometime just after 10 p.m. this evening (CaST, so that just after 9 p.m. EST, or 6 p.m. PST — I think). That's about eleven hours from now.

Nothing much notable about yesterday. I'd not left the house since Tuesday evening. And it's not good when I get like that, when I get that bad, so Spooky made me go with her to get dinner last night. We watched Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris' Little Miss Sunshine, which I loved almost unconditionally. Had it done nothing but reveal children's beauty pageants for the twisted freak shows that they are, it would be a fine, fine film, but it has quite a lot more to offer. Alan Arkin, a long time favourite, was brilliant, as was Steve Carell. Later, I played Final Fantasy XII (surprise), and then Spooky read me more of The Hobbit while I looked for inspiration (for whatever it is I'll be writing today) in H. R. Giger's Necronomicon II and a book on symbolist painters. That was yesterday, kaloo kalay.

This morning, while I watched night turn to day, I did some work on a Wikipedia dinosaur article, thus ending my seven-month hiatus from working on Wikipedia dinosaur articles.

And I was thinking, last night, recently both Poppy ([ profile] docbrite) and Christa ([ profile] faustfatale) have written about how blogging doesn't take time away from their actual for-real writing, and I was wishing I could say the same for myself. But I come to blogging as I come to everything — a little too intensely. I think I average about an hour a day on blog entries, though it is not uncommon to spend three hours in a twenty-four hour period on the LJ. Not reading other people's entries. Just writing my own. Because I have to write it and proof it and get it all just frelling right and check the facts and etc. & etc. And I've noticed that my entries have gotten rather long lately. So, maybe I'll try to keep them just a little shorter. Thing is, like Wikipedia (something I've also spent too much time on), I actually enjoy writing blog entries.

Okay. Now I need breakfast ramen and wasabi rice crackers and maybe more caffeine.


greygirlbeast: (Default)
Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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