greygirlbeast: (Chiana 6)
So far, here in Providence, it's been a shitty, snowless winter. Lots of rain, and days with wide carnivorous blue skies, but fuck all when it comes to snow. Did we piss off the Snow Miser or something?

If you've not seen it already, the ONE AND ONLY auction of an ARC of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir has begun, and it began last night. The ARC is only being auctioned because we went a little over budget on the trailer shoot (and still have another day or so of filming coming up at the end of this month). So, please bid if you are able. Own a collectible ARC filled with uncorrected sentences. Oh, and both of Vince's illustrations for the novel do appear in the ARC. Thank you.

I'm not sure there's much point in recounting yesterday. I didn't write, because there was a sort of endless barrage of writing-related emails and phone calls. There was a good conversation with my publicist at Penguin (regarding The Drowning Girl), and I was sent more inked pages from Alabaster #3 (which I need to proof as soon as I finish this entry), and there were the pencils for the fourth Alabaster cover (beautiful), and a whole bunch of stuff for Readercon. I'm not kidding, working on all these books at once has my head spinning. Two hours of work feels like eight. This is a new thing to me. At least I'm sleeping more; otherwise, I'd probably be dead by now.

Rainy, cold Thursdays in January are good days for comments.

I'm not even going to try and explain the Buffalo-chicken calzones we had for dinner, except to say they're as hot coming out as they are going in.

Oh, I have this peculiar meme-thing from [livejournal.com profile] matociquala: Pick up the nearest book to you. Turn to page 45. The first sentence describes your sex life in 2012. Okay. I'll play along. So..."The templars strode forward, drawing their swords and advancing on the dogmen, who stood to meet them." Make of that what you will.

Otherwise, yesterday...well, not much else. I read "The forelimb carriage in ceratopsid dinosaurs," and my Sith assassin made it to Tatooine and reached Level 26. Oh, and this morning we learned that Rift's next big patch is going to permit in-game "Ascendent weddings," which, I will admit, is just a few thousand miles beyond the pale for me. The lines between pretend and real begin to blur like that, and we're back to the Great Cesspool of Second Life.

Looking Askance,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (talks to wolves)
The more I listen to Brown Bird, the more they amaze me.

Two Worlds and In Between, deluxe and trade editions, is now officially sold out.

And tomorrow is the day. But if you get your hopes up so much you think I've been crowned Grand Xena She-Ra, Wonder Woman, Queen of the Known Universe the First, you have only yourself to blame for the inevitable disappointment.

Today, I take...more. And we see if things get better. If I can remain functional. Because, apparently, it's one thing to have irrational fears of How Bad Things Are, and another thing entirely to have rational fears of How Bad Things Are. It's the same shit, either way. The meds just make me care a whole lot less. Well, and it's nice not having the seizures. Also, it's cool knowing that if someone were to try and drink my blood, they would die a horrible death.

"She came by her insanity honestly."

The first half of yesterday was a mad whirlwind of this, that, and the other, attending to various questions and details for various projects until, by, 3 p.m., I was exhausted and still hadn't written a single word. So, it being Samhain, and Hallowe'en, I took the afternoon off. Which was stupid, as I have too much work to be doing that. But I did. Spooky went to the market, and I wasted about a half hour of my life playing RIFT, and...well, that was a dumb idea. Not working, I mean. I took a hot bath before dinner. Spooky brought me a Black Forest cake (my favorite). We carved jack-o'lanterns. There were trick-or-treaters. We watched Its the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (1966), and the two new episodes of Beavis and Butthead.

The former was bittersweet and nostalgic, a gentle amusement from an age when lies were better at hiding the ugliness of the world from children (and parents tried a lot harder). The latter was funny as hell, and, as I said last night on Twitter, television has crawled so far up its own (porn, porn, porn, porn, porn) asshole that Beavis and Butthead (porn, porn, porn, porn, porn) actually come off as rather smart kids (porn, porn, porn, porn, porn). Beavis and Butthead on Jersey Shore and LMFAO's "Champagne Showers"? It's pretty incisive commentary on this dear sweet filthy world, kittens.

And we watched John Fawcett's Ginger Snaps (2000). It has aged very, very well. Sure, the final creature effects suffer from budget constraint (though the makeup up until then is brilliant), but it remains one of the very few genuinely good werewolf films. It's perfectly, morbidly, hilariously, grimly, gleefully horrific, and, in the end, an impressive examination of teenage alienation. Of finding oneself in that darkest of dark places, and at that moment you've spent a short life fearing above all others. If you've never seen this film, what the fuck's wrong with you? Oh, you were only ten when it was released....

Yes, if I had a daughter, I truly would name her Ampersand. Well, on the birth certificate it would be listed as & Rose Kiernan, but we'd call her Amp.

Thank you, [livejournal.com profile] readingthedark. Thank you, The National. You guys rock.

Also, you might be a loony Xtian whackjob, but you go, Anne Rice (at least she wrote three good novels):

Lestat and Louie feel sorry for vampires that sparkle in the sun. They would never hurt immortals who choose to spend eternity going to high school over and over again in a small town — anymore than they would hurt the physically disabled or the mentally challenged. My vampires possess gravitas. They can afford to be merciful...The idea that if you are immortal you would go to high school instead of Katmandu or Paris or Venice, it’s the vampire dumbed down for kids. But it’s worked. It’s successful. It makes kids really happy. And here we are, back at Beavis and Butthead.

It's nice to see Anne Rice fucking grow a pair for an hour. And if you think I just made a sexist comment, grow a pair, please. After all, do you know I didn't mean ovaries? But, wait...wouldn't that also be sexist. Maybe I meant ears.

Oh, there are pumpkin photos from last night (mine was stolen, just like last year):

Jack! )
greygirlbeast: (Middle Triassic)
There's this thing that's been happening with increasing regularity the last few months. I sit down to write, and I lock up. And I can't imagine anything more terrifying for someone in my position. I'll have an idea (which used to be the hardest part), but then I can't find the tone, the words, the characters. For me, writing is never easy. It's always like pulling teeth. The last few months, it's been like pulling teeth without anything to numb the pain. Now, I'm smart enough and experienced enough to know that this is happening because I'm writing far too much (just consider, for instance, the 60+ stories I've done for Sirenia Digest since December 2005), story-after-story, novel-after-novel, without significant breaks. I also know that being so reclusive, rarely leaving the house, rarely speaking to anyone but Spooky, that's not helping either. I also know that the workload isn't going to get lighter anytime in the foreseeable future, not if I want to keep the bills paid. Oh, and then there's the stress, and the constant insomnia. And the seizures. But I place most of the blame on too much work and too little time Outside.

Yesterday, I sat down to begin a new sf story that's due at the end of May, one that really means a lot to me. I've got an idea I love. It's familiar territory. I even found the title with relative ease. "Galápagos." And then...nothing. The words wouldn't come. I locked up. I panicked. After a couple of hours of feeling as though I was suffocating, I got up and went to the front parlor where Spooky was sewing. We talked for a while, about all this, only in far greater detail than I'll go into here. I resolved to do the only thing I can do. Keep writing, trying to cut myself a little slack, shelve one or two projects that really wouldn't have helped out that much financially (never mind if I wanted to do them), and get out more often. The last one is the most important, I think. I cannot write about a world I never fucking see. I cannot continue to write about people when I've stopped talking to people. My imagination can only get me so far without actual input from external sources. I went back into my office and wrote 668 words on the new story. Not great, but better than the zero word count I'd expected to have for the day.

---

When I was done for the evening, we got dressed and dove down to South County and Moonstone Beach. We'd not been to Moonstone since that frigid day in February when we rescued the steamquid. Despite a forecast calling for rain, the day was bright and sunny and almost warm (66F or so). As we left Providence, I was pleased to see that the trees are all green and leafy. The woods are beginning to look like summer, even if it feels like early spring out there (my expectations have yet to adjust to the realities of New England seasons). This changed a little as we got closer to the beach. Down there, the trees are not so far along, not so leafy. But it was good just to be out of the house, away from the keyboard.

There was a mist racing across Trustom Pond, and we parked in the turn around and headed across the dunes to Moonstone Beach. To the south, towards Greenhill, I could see a wall of mist moving in. It's late enough in the year that most of the beach is fenced off again, because it's a protected nesting area for piping plovers and least terns. We walked among the sand and cobbles, just soaking in the salty air and the roar of the breakers. I found a moonstone (the plagioclase feldspar oligocase) almost as big as my fist, almost perfectly round. We found a few unusually large pieces of beach glass. There were birds everywhere, especially back in the dog roses behind the dunes: catbirds, wrens, red-winged blackbirds, robins, mockingbirds, gulls, cormorants. Spooky spotted a Yellow Warbler (Dendroica petechia), which was a new one for both of us. After half an hour or so, the fog rolled in, and the temperature plummeted. The sun became a dim smudge in the sky. We stuck it out a little longer, then headed back to the car. We had dinner at Iggy's in Narragansett, then drove down to the Point Judith lighthouse for a bit. The tide was further out than I'd ever seen at the point, and there was a man fishing, and a guy on a surfboard, almost lost in the fog. I think we made it back to Providence about 9 p.m.

---

We finished watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer last night (second time for both of us). I think I've come to the conclusion that the series was at its best in seasons four and five, and that the last episode of Season Five would have made a marvelous conclusion for the story. Paradoxically, though, some of the series' very best episodes don't come along until seasons six and seven, despite those weaker story arcs that characterize the last two seasons. The first two seasons are hardly watchable, and it amazes me that the show survived long enough to find its footing. Still, glad it did. And after Buffy, we watched Repo — The Genetic Opera (2008) again, because we've both been wanting to see it a second time.

And that was yesterday, snipped and styled and prettied up.

Spooky's got new stuff up in her Etsy shop, Dreaming Squid, including the cats that everyone seems to love so much.

If I'm forgetting anything, it can wait until later. There are photos from yesterday, of course:

May 15, 2009 )
greygirlbeast: (Ellen Ripley 1)
There is a phrase that is not uttered in this house. That phrase dreaded by all authors. Especially authors with non-negotiable and constant deadlines. Especially when not meeting those deadlines means not being able to pay the bills. In this house, we simply refer to it as the "w-word." Which is to say, I'm struggling with the language. Yesterday, I must have written five or six hundred words, and threw them all away. And these are the very worst sort of writing days. The breathing space I thought I'd have this month is gone, because of this, yesterday and the dry week preceding it. Here I am again, running out of time. And staring into the uncertainty of the day. Oh, I also got some work done on the Secret Project yesterday.

I tried to write on Thursday, but to no avail. Friday brought warmer weather, and so I decided that it might help to leave the house. I'd not been out of the apartment in a week. I'm not supposed to do that anymore. The temperatures were forecast for the high sixties, and we drove to Beavertail. Along the way, more signs of spring. A few splashes of green in the trees. Skunk cabbages and cattails in all the boggy spots. The dogwoods are in bloom. But when we reached Beavertail, we discovered there was a rough sea and a ferocious wind off the bay, and the wind chill must have had the temperature at the point, below the lighthouse, down in the forties or lower. We tried the shore half a mile farther north, on the eastern side of the island, but the wind was still too brisk for comfort. We sat among the rocks for a little while, listening to the sea and watching the gulls and cormorants. And then we headed back inland. Oh, I almost forgot. Before Beavertail, we went to Wickford, to the Herb Wyfe, because there were things we needed. Wickford was warm, and we sat a while and watched the boats in the cove. I think the high for the day was in the low seventies. Unless you were at Beavertail. Today, the high will only be in the fifties. But, slowly, this winter is ending.

Then, yesterday...well, I covered that already.

Some good WoW last night, thanks to an invitation to a huge raiding party. We swept through the Eastern Kingdoms, from Menethil Harbor through the Wetlands, then up into the mountains via Dun Algaz, and hit the dwarves in Loch Modan. From there, we continued south, across the Blasted Lands, the Searing Gorge, through the lava-illumined halls of Blackrock Mountain and out again onto the Burning Steppes. Over the Redridge Mountians by way of the Blackrock Pass. We slaughtered everything in Lakeshire, then continued south into Duskwood. Darkshire met the same fate as Lakeshire. In Duskwood, we realized we were being trailed by two or three Alliance scouts, and we met considerable resistance after we crossed the river into Westfal. There was a marvelous battle below Sentinel Hill, after which we headed east again, into the Elwyn Forest, and we made our last stand in Goldshire. Our raiding party repelled wave after wave of Alliance pouring out of Stormwind Keep, but was finally vanquished by a force three times our size. It was pretty damn cool. And Suraa and Shaharrazad both got the "Know Thy Enemy" achievement, which we hadn't expected to ever earn.

A lot of reading the last few days. I'm working my way back through Lovecraft's "The Haunter of the Dark" and "The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath." On the one hand, I think I appreciate the latter story more than I have in the past, but, on the other, it's surely one of HPL's stranger (and longest), and I'm wondering if anyone's ever tried reading it as a sort of Gulliver's Travels political satire. And there's been more from the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, papers on the "rauisuchian" archosaur Batrachotomus kupferzellensis; the ontogeny of Stegosaurus; ontogenetic and taxonomic implications of pattern and transition of surficial bone texture of the centrosaurine frill; and Adeopapposaurus, a new prosauropod dinosaur from Argentina.

There are some photos from Friday, behind the cut. The platypus says it's time to..well, you know.

17 April 2009 )
greygirlbeast: (Eli1)
Er...maybe I can write an entry in my sleep. Let's find out, shall we? At the very least, the attempt will amuse the Platypus and the Dodo, and their lives are so devoid of genuine entertainment. I was in bed a little after two a.m. last night, so I ought to be awake. But, then, just as I was dozing off, I had a small seizure, which woke me up. I had to take another Ambien, and still didn't get back to sleep until after three. That's two seizures in two days. There was a rather bad one on Sunday. And no, they're not making it any easier to get this short story written. Truthfully, the stress surrounding this story is likely the trigger.

Even after a year, I'm still uncomfortable talking about my fits here. But, they have a great impact on my writing, and on my ability to write, so leaving them out would be a sort of dishonesty. It's not that I mind lying, but I hardly see the reason in keeping this journal if I'm not truthful about what being a writer is like for me.

To add to the fun of the last two days, our internet connection (and that of everyone in the area) has been touch and go. Mostly go. These days, I rely primarily on the web for both dictionary and thesaurus. And because I'm writing so goddamn much, there's little time for out-of-house research, so I'm forced to rely heavily on sources such as Wikipedia, Google books, and thousands of websites. It usually works out okay, so long as you carefully check everything against other sources (it's especially important to double-check what you find on Wikipedia, given their dubious policies regarding neutrality and their practice of placing consensus before authority). Anyway, yesterday the internet was down until sometime after sunset, and virtually nothing was written. Maybe 250 words. I desperately need to finish "As Red as Red" by tomorrow evening. Oh, and to add to the fun, the CEM for The Red Tree is due any day, and Penguin wants it back in Manhattan by April 3rd, which means we have to manage Sirenia Digest #40 and the CEM simultaneously.

Last night, there was an hour or so of rp with the Alpha Institute in Ethereal. And, afterwards, I played WoW for a bit. I have discovered that I have a lot more fun with WoW if I focus on low-level stuff, rather than the high-level quests. And that I enjoy soloing more than playing with Spooky. She took me to Outland, and, yeah...it's pretty. But, honestly, I'm enjoying myself more trying to getting exalted with Orgrimmar and the Darkspear trolls. Go figure. Maybe Shaharrazad's just not an epic kind of girl.

After the seizure, trying to get to sleep, I re-read much of Lovecraft's "The Shunned House," which is actually relevant to "As Red as Red."

My thanks to everyone who bid in the latest round of eBay auctions. Don't forget that the trade paperback edition of Alabaster will be out soon, there's now a mass-market edition of Daughter of Hounds, and there are still (I think) a few copies of the trade hardback A is for Alien available. The more books I sell, the fewer scars I get from Herr Platypus' venomous spurs. This is the economy of my life.
greygirlbeast: (Starbuck 3)
Y managed to sleep an amazyng 7.5 hours last nyght, whych, the way thyngs have been goyng lately, seems lyke a lot.

Um....well. I was going to try writing the whole entry substituting Ys for Is, because, you know, Dave what'shisname, over at the "SyFy," channel says that Ys are waaaaaay hipper and "textable" and all. But I just can't do it. So, no gold star for me. I must remain unhip and literate.

Nothing was written yesterday, thanks to the effects of this recent bout of insomnia. I had Spooky read me what I'd written on "As Red as Red" on Tuesday, and it was much better than I'd expected. Then I sat in front of the computer, trying to write, jacked up on caffeine. I sat here maybe two hours. I wrote nothing. My mind was like a jittery, zombiefied mud puddle, and I just kept wanting to put my head down on the desk and sleep. Finally, we got dressed and went back down to Spooky's parents' place in Saunderstown. Being out in the sun did me good, though the wind was bitter. We talked to chickadees and refilled bird feeders, visited with Spider Cat and the relocated steamsquid, looked in on the chickens, watered the plants, and so on. I think we made it back home sometime after six p.m. Last night, I did a little rp with the Alpha Institute in Nor. But not much. I was just too entirely fucking sleep deprived. I logged off about eleven p.m., and Spooky and I watched three episodes from Season Three of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, until I was finally sleepy enough to, you know, sleep.

That was yesterday. Today, it's colder and cloudier. I'm having to adjust to a late March that looks more like early February. It's not as easy I'd hoped it would be. I weathered November and December and even most of January's extended snowpocalypse just fine. It wasn't until the start of February that this winter really began to wear on me.

If you haven't, please check out the latest round of eBay auctions. And/or pre-order a copy of the forthcoming trade paperback of Alabaster. Thank you.

---

On the subject of werewolves, which are on my mind, because "As Red as Red" is mostly a werewolf story, and specifically regarding werewolves in Second Life: When I say "werewolf," or "lycanthrope," I mean a supernatural being that spends part of its life as a woman or man, and part as a wolf, or as a human/wolf hybrid, living out a cycle generally dictated by lunar phases. Sadly, in most of the SL dark-fantasy sims where werewolves appear, they are, in actuality, played by furries, using the whole werewolf thing as an opportunity to trot out their anthropomorphic "funny animal" avatars. That is, if you're lucky, they look like Wile E. Coyote. More often than not, though, they look a lot more like people wearing those cartoonish sports-mascot outfits (available in many pastel shades). And the reason that I bother to complain about this is two fold. First, werewolves should be kind of creepy. Wile E. Coyote is emphatically not creepy. Or spooky. Or even a little macabre. He's funny, and cute, and more than a bit pathetic. Hell, I'll even readily admit that a good werewolf can be very sexy, but, even as objects of my deviant sexuality, I want them to retain their inherent, traditional creepiness.

The other reason has more to do with suspension of disbelief, which I need in rp the same as when I'm watching a movie or reading a book. If I'm in a good rp scene, and suddenly come face-to-face with the mascot for the local soccer team, it blows the whole thing, boom, right out of the fucking water. I suddenly find myself too busy laughing, looking for the zipper, and wondering where the SPH (strategically-placed hole) is located to actually rp. Never mind that the tension inherent in the lycanthrope/moon relationship is tossed aside. And it's not like there aren't very good, scary werewolf (male and female) avs readily available in SL. There are. I even own one.

If we have werewolves (or any other sort of lycanthrope, or "therianthrope") in the Alpha Institute (so far, we don't), they will not be furries by another name. And they will only appear in their wolf form when the moon is full in RL (as the moon is always full in SL), or during some other predetermined time. I know I'll likely catch flack for saying this, and someone will call me a "hater" and point out that being a lycan isn't a curse, it's a lifestyle choice or something like that. But I just can't handle the fursuit avs, or the 24/7/365 "otherkin." No roadrunners, either. Or wisecracking bunnies. Or yiffy "foxes" masquerading as kitsune. I don't have many rules, but that's one of them. And there are plenty of other Nor factions that do accept furries and call them lycans.

---

Time to make the doughnuts. And here are the last few photos from Monday's trip to Newport, shots of the Redwood Library and Athenaeum:

Monday at the library )
greygirlbeast: (starbuck2)
Yesterday is an utter blur of sleepless delirium. I tried to write. About 3 p.m., though, I looked back over the 250 or so words I'd managed on "The Z Word" and realized that it wasn't going where I wanted it to go. And that I was far too bleary to get it to the place it needed to be. So I gave up and set work aside for the day. I'll finish the story today. Last night, I was in bed by 12:30 ayem. Spooky read to me a while, and I was asleep by 2:30. Eight hours sleep, and I feel much better today. Two more nights like that, and I might have my shit together again. Too much stress lately, too many meds, and far too little sleep.

Yesterday, I did read the "Season Six" Angel graphic novel, Angel: After the Fall—— well Part One, as Part Two doesn't come out until next month. I'd really wanted to love it, but I was unimpressed by Brian Lynch's scripting, and totally unimpressed with the artwork (and you never know if the problem is the pencils, the inking, the color, or some combination thereof. I could blame Franco Urru, but it's possible he delivered good pencils that were ruined in inking). Regardless, a big disappointment. I'll still read Part II, if only because I can't stand to leave a story unfinished, but, truthfully, right now, I think the alley scene at the end of Season Five was a far better conclusion, if this is the alternative. I have become a Whedon fan, and I know he could have done better than this.

After dinner, Spooky and I watched Richard Brooks' brilliant adaptation of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood (1967). Wow. Somehow, I'd managed never to see this film, which entirely baffles me. That I'd never seen it. Conrad L. Hall's chillingly bleak cinematography was superb (I wish directors still understood the inherent power of B&W), and Robert Blake's performance was Oscar caliber.

---

[livejournal.com profile] nightwitch wrote, "I have a theory about music, that most people's favorite music is centered around the period when they were children and teen-agers. Not that people don't like other era's, but that 'their era' is the music they always come back to, and most enjoy. Do you agree or disagree?"

This might be true for many people, I don't know. I only know it isn't true for me. My favorite music is spread out all over the place, from the late '60s (The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, The Byrds, Bob Dylan, etc.) all the way to the present (The Decemberists, The Dresden Dolls, VNV Nation, Sigur Rós, etc.). I might have a slight favoritism going for the early '90s (I was in my late twenties/early thirties), and I could probably point to another "favoritism" period beginning around 2003 and still going strong (which, I think, is the result of "indie music" being forced to become independent again). For my part, I see the pop musical period during my teenage years (1978-1983, let's say) as especially disinteresting, and it wasn't until college, when I discovered "college radio," that this seemed to change for me (say 1985 or 1986). R.E.M. and Kate Bush were revelations, and I found them both, belatedly, in '86.

Though admittedly half awake when I did that Billboard music meme yesterday, something seemed very, very not right about what I was seeing. Mostly how the composition of the chart seemed to change so dramatically in the late 80s/early 90s, and how, at this same time, it became more conservative, less diverse, with fewer acts holding on to the number one slot for longer periods. Of course, the answer is simple, and soon occurred to me. It begins in September 1988, when Billboard began its "Hot Modern Rock Tracks" (originally called "Modern Rock Tracks") chart. And if I look at this chart, suddenly it all starts making sense again. Yesterday, I was asking Spooky where the hell R.E.M., The Cure, Nirvana, and NIN were (among many others), and the answer is, the "Modern Rock Tracks." The sudden change in the charts in the late '80s does not reflect a true shift in the sorts of songs that became most popular with Americans, but, rather, it reflects a sudden shift in the way that Billboard measured that popularity.

---

As for the Howards End sim, the terraforming continues. We now have 25 people signed up for the rp, and 8 builders (some of whom are also on the rp list). Which is to say, it's coming along right on schedule. I've started trying to keep most of the H.E. business in Second Life, keeping people posted on developments via group notices. We have room for a few more rpers, so if you're interested, let me know. And my thanks to [livejournal.com profile] scarletboi for his nonlinear recollection that I'd chosen to name the paranormal research group the Roanoke Society, because now I have. We will begin having build and rp meetings sometime in the next week or two, though the actual rp likely won't begin until late October, at the earliest. We have all of College Hill to build first.

---

Okay, hairy eyeball from Herr Platypus, so I better wrap this up. Please have a look at the current eBay auctions, and be advised that you can now pre-order A is for Alien from subpress, and that it would be very, very helpful if you also order a copy of the mass-market paperback of Daughter of Hounds. Sonya and Eric are trying to lure me and Spooky away to the beaches of Maine this weekend, but if that's going to happen, well, miles to go before I sleep.
greygirlbeast: (Middle Triassic)
Yesterday did indeed go entirely off the rails, and it refused to be shoved back on. Nothing was written. There was email with Bill Schafer regarding the cover of A is for Alien and with Anne Sowards regarding the cover of The Red Tree. New contracts arrived (details TBA), and I had to spend some time with them. There was deliberation over artists to be interviewed for Sirenia Digest #33. There was printer drama.

By 3:30 p.m., it was clear there would be no writing, and I suggested to Spooky that we just get the hell out of the house and maybe head for Watch Hill, which we've not visited since our arrival in Rhode Island back in June. She agreed it was a good idea, but then remembered we had to pick up our CSA produce bag at Dexter Training Ground at 5 p.m., and, I noted that a line of thunderstorms was sprouting up across South County. Regardless, we resolved to head for Watch Hill after picking up the CSA bag. I took a bath, and I think we actually got out of here about 5:30. Just south of Providence we hit the rain, and I suggested we give it up and turn back. Spooky was reluctant, because it meant we would run into work traffic. So, we changed our plans. Instead of Watch Hill, we just drove down to Narragansett and got some doughboys at Iggy's. By the time we reached the restaurant, the sky was clearing somewhat. We took our doughboys and headed to Point Judith. The tide was high, and the sea seemed oddly calm. Spooky suggested we check out the beach at Sand Cove ("Roger W. Wheeler State Beach"), over on the western side of Narragansett. I'd never been there, so I said sure. Sadly, it turned out to be 27 acres of the dullest, ugliest, most litter-strewn waterfront I've seen in Rhode Island (or anywhere in New England). We walked about a while, and at least the broad expanse of shallow water created by the breakwaters to the south meant an environment amenable to a number of species of pelecypods (bivalve mollusks) I'd not yet seen on the state's beaches. I picked up shells from large Surf clams (Spisula solidissima), a pretty little Bay scallop (Aequipectecn irradians), and a species of Razor clam (either Enis directus or Solen viridis, but I can't be sure, as the hinge, teeth, and beak were missing). Ratty sea gulls everywhere, and tourist droppings. After maybe twenty minutes, we grew disgusted and headed back to Providence.

Last night, after dinner, we watched P.J. Pesce's Lost Boys: The Tribe (2008), an entirely unsuccessful attempt to produce a sequel to Joel Schumacher's classic The Lost Boys (1987). There's really, honestly, not much good to be said for Pesce's film. I'm glad it wasn't longer, as the 100 minutes felt interminable (this was the "director's cut"). All the charm of the original was absent, all the things that made it work. Sure, there was sex and gore aplenty, and some dubious CGI, which I think were chiefly attempts to hide the absence of a script or direction or much in the way of acting. The camera work was...well...I've seen better stuff in Sci Fi Channel films. The critical soundtrack was dull and mismatched. Only the Aiden cover of "Cry Little Sister" (original by the psuedononymous "Gerard McMann") was worth the trouble, and even that could have been better. And Corey Feldman. Poor, poor (oddly well-preserved) Corey Feldman trapped in this asshat of a movie, trying his best to recapture some of the magic of the first film. Twenty-one years after the release of The Lost Boys, you'd think someone would have gone to the trouble to do this right or leave it the hell alone. And all I have to say about Angus Sutherland is that the father seems to have passed along none of his talent to Kiefer's half-brother. Anyway, I'd say skip this one altogether. Even free, it's a painful waste of time. This mess would have been more accurately titled Grand Theft Auto: The Lost Boys, and now I know why it went direct to DVD.

The Howards End sim was delivered this morning by Linden Labs. Right now, it's just a barren hunk of rock, like something thrust up from Paleozoic seas. But Jessica Ornitz, our terraformer and tunneler, will soon get to work on molding the stone to our purposes. I'm trying not to get too excited about this, at least not until after today's work is done. We have 15,000 prims to make the world come alive (a prim is the fundamental building unit in Second Life). If you want in, we still have slots open (I don't expect to close membership to the "Denizen's of Howards End" group until October, really), what I'll need is your SL name, so we can send you an invitation. Then you'll get all the updates and stuff. For now, the access list to the sim is restricted to the build team. Oh, and if you have not yet created an SL account, please, no silly names or pun-names. Names that you can imagine one might encounter in one of my novels set in New England (I'll likely be playing mostly as Bellatrix Bracken). For those people who already have accounts with unusual names, we'll figure something out, but absolutely no "joke names" will be permitted in sim. One day, I'll post my list of most idiotic, unforgivable SL names. Oh, and no names with numbers in them. I got in one decent bit of rp in Corvinus last night (thank you, Lina).

Please have a look at the current ebay auctions, and if you have not yet done so, it would be very helpful if you'd pre-order the mass-market paperback of Daughter of Hounds. Thanks! Now, here are some rather dull photos from yesterday:

Narragansett, August 14, 2008 )
greygirlbeast: (blood)
The anger's still here, and there's no way I'm fit to write an actual entry. So, instead, I'll just post five more of the photos from the evening of July 7th (behind the cut), though I think I posted the best ones on Tuesday. There's not much to be said for yesterday, anyway. It was hot. I didn't write. Spooky broke a tooth. I spent a great deal of time lying on the floor in the front parlour staring up at the ceiling.

I do not want this to become a "sick journal," a catalog of maladies, a daily list of infirmities. I hate that sort of shit. This journal exists to promote my writing, and to help me accomplish my writing.

Late, late last night, I had the third seizure in three days. The worst of the three. Today, I feel like someone ran over me with a small truck. I'm so tired of this. Just...tired of it. Tuesday's seizure actually happened at the market, the first ever in a public place. Fortunately, it was just a little blip, like my brain rebooted or something, a few seconds. I don't think anyone, except Spooky, even noticed. Anyway, yeah. And I know why this is happening, or I think I do. Stress + mental exhaustion. So, today, I'm just going to take it easy, try to get from one end to the other. No greater goal.

College Hill and the River, July 7th )


greygirlbeast: (chi3)
So, I didn't set out yesterday not to write. I had every intention of writing at least a thousand words. At least. But. The distractions —— the heat, some minor pain, insecurity about the book, and then the asshole from Cox Cable. On the latter, the least excusable (least excusable that I let it ruin my day, I mean) of the lot. After a month without cable, the Cox installation guy shows to hook up the cable.

I'd already determined that neither of the two jacks were suitable, one being in Spooky's sewing room and the other in the second parlour (which we are using mostly for ritual space). So, I figured, no problem. It's a short distance from the sewing-room jack to the television, maybe ten or fifteen feet, at most. But he refused to do it, because (get this), we might trip over the cable and sue Cox. He was summarily dismissed from the house. We shall live without television. I'm sure we will be better people for it. There's not even that much I'll miss, and what I do miss will mostly be made available via the internet and DVD, anyway. Also, we'll save $70 a month. But I am sick to puking death of the idiots who run Cox. They have something of a monopoly up here, and they act like it. At least they're aptly named.

By the time the Drama of the Cable was done, the day was fading. I was fading. It was very hot inside and outside, despite Dr. Muñoz' best efforts, and obviously nothing was getting written. So. Though it was the wrong thing to do, the most wrong thing I could have done, I wrote the day off as an L. Must have been about 4:30 p.m. We left for Beavertail about an hour later, fleeing to cooler weather and a calmer environment. I climbed down onto the tilted beds of Cambrian phyllite and just sat and stared into the wild, rough sea. We'd had a steady wind all day (hot wind in Providence), and the surf was whipped into a frenzy. It seemed a frenzy to match the noise in my head. I sat in the sun, the salt spray on my face, the sea tumbling over the rocks and rushing through a rift worn in the rocks below me. Too often, I go to the sea and become fascinated by the constituent parts — the rocks, the birds, the sea life. Yesterday, I sat and tried to think on nothing but the whole, all at once. And slowly, I grew less agitated, and then, as the sun was replaced by clouds from the west, I grew calm, and then ecstatic at the sea. Only the cormorants distracted me from the incoming tide. I think cormorants have become my favourite coastal bird...er, glorified dinosaur. By the time we left, it was getting dark, maybe 7:30 or 8 p.m., and we were both shivering and very damp, a little sunburned. We'd stopped, on the way down, at McQuade's, a market in Jamestown, and, because someone had remarked that on sixth anniversaries it was traditional to give candy, I got Spooky a pack of NECCO wafers and she got me a pack of plain M&M's. We're cheap dates, what can I say. There are photos behind the cut:

Beavertail, July 3rd 2008 )


Back home, we had tuna sandwiches for dinner, then escaped into Second Life for a while. Some good rp in Toxia (thanks Cerdwin and Bellatrix) as Labyrinth. [livejournal.com profile] blu_muse has some really wonderful screencaps from last night up. Just click here. To see them full size, click twice to reach the largest version. That first one — Labyrinth showing Cerdwin the light of a dying star, a star slain by Nareth — wow. Oh, and I should mention, I'll likely be putting out the first official call to the Sirenia Players this evening, so if you are on the list, you might want to be on the look-out for a communique. Sadly, there was also some very, very annoying out-of-character crap in SL last night, because some people simply cannot grasp that SL is not RL ("Real Life"), nor should it ever be used as a substitute for RL, and that the Story is god. When rping with me, everything serves the story. Everything. So, yeah, annoying. But, you have to let that crap roll off you and just keep going.

It's chilly and wet here today. So maybe I can avoid the distractions. All I have to do is write. The rest is irrelevant.

And yes, I am ignoring Independence Day, which should have been replaced this year, again, by a day of national shame, not pride.

Postscript (1:10 p.m.) — My thanks to [livejournal.com profile] robyn_ma for pointing out that Jesse Helms, the bastard from North Carolina, has died. Now that's something I can celebrate.

x6

Jul. 3rd, 2008 10:53 am
greygirlbeast: (vlad and mina)
Today is mine and Spooky's 6th anniversary. And we both forgot until this ayem, when I remembered. We met, face to face, while I was MCing Convergence 5 in New Orleans in 1999 (ah, goth love), and thereafter we began spending a lot of time together. But we didn't really hook up until this date in 2002. That's the date from which we count the anniversary. We have no especial plans, having forgotten that today is our anniversary. But we might think of something. We shall see.

Oh, and Hubero lost a tooth last night. Which is a relief. Siamese are prone to pre-mature tooth loss, and he's had an upper incisor dangling by a thread for days, making him cranky. Spooky didn't want me to pull it, and I didn't want to pay a vet to do it. Fortunately, it has taken care of itself.

As predicted, no writing yesterday, and, as predicted, we went to see Wall-E (my first Rhode Island theatre movie, by the way). We went down to Warwick, knowing that the Providence Place Mall would be infested with surly teens who make bad, noisy audiences. We were able to make the 12:10 pm matinée, and discovered that movies are actually a dollar cheaper per ticket in Warwick than Atlanta, which surprised me. Anyway, my thoughts on the film, behind the cut, for SPOILERS:

Wall-E SPOILERS )

Very, very windy today. 20 to 30 mph. But it's helping to cool what threatened to be a very hot day. It's presently 84F, with an expected high of 85. Only 78 in the house. Dr. Munõz has not been rolled into my office, even.

Not much else to yesterday. After the movie, we stopped at Newbury Comics and picked up the latest from VNV Nation (Judgement) and Lisa Gerrard (The Silver Tree). The former is very, very good, but the latter is sublime. I was very well behaved and did not buy the Movie Maniacs Bram Stoker's Dracula action figures, even though I've been wishing someone would do them since 1992. Even though they were priced ridiculously cheap at $10. I am not buying more action figures, as I've no place to keep many of the ones I now own. Back home, I began reading the next chapter of the Triassic book. We hung some more pictures. We watched The Devil's Rejects for the fifth time. And then, late, I had some very excellent Second Life rp in Toxia (thank you Omega, Cerdwin, Joah, Bellatrix, Abigel, and Larissa). The godthing that Nareth died to grant entry into the world — call it Labyrinth, Eris Discordia, Paradox, Contradiction, Azathoth — was claimed by the Omega Institute and taken from the Pit and the company of the Shadows to the library, where it has been given sanctuary while the OI tries to figure out what's to be done with it and whether or not Nareth can be resurrected. But, the atomic structure of its insufficient body is decaying, burning out, and it knows that fate dictates the Lady Omega will slay it. [livejournal.com profile] blu_muse took some nice screencaps, which you may see here. Click on them for larger versions. This is certainly one of the best storylines I've been a part of in SL, and it makes me long for the dear, imploded Dune sim. So does Lisa Gerrard.

Okay. The platypus declares I've said enough, so it's back to the salt mines with me.
greygirlbeast: (chi 5)
Yesterday, I wrote 1,103 words on Chapter Two of The Red Tree. Not a stunning writing day, but a decent one. Today, though...well...beginning last night...I realized I'm just not going to be up to writing today. It's just not...there. I don't know if this is exhaustion, depression, or relief, or if I'm just a little freaked out that we are actually here and settling into the new place in Providence. The last month has been a whirlwind. I feel as though it has beaten me to a pulp, and now there is only the work, and it's not so bad, the work...but sometimes I lose my footing. Oh, and there's a mountain of neglected email. There was a brief absence seizure last night.

I should announce that I'll be appearing at Readercon later this month, Friday and Saturday only, July 18-19. I have a reading scheduled. I have grown to hate doing conventions, so don't expect to see me doing much of this, even now that I'm all Yankeefied and social and all. I'll post my itinerary once I know it.

I think we're going to see Wall-E today, because Spooky and I are likely the only two sentient bipeds on earth who have yet to see it.

I was planning a New Moon ritual for tonight, out at Beavertail, but that's another thing I know I'm just not up to. It takes a clear mind —— the rituals —— and focus, and I presently haven't much of either. Better to set it aside until next month, than to botch it. I spent about 45 minutes, yesterday evening, after the writing was done, looking at local covens — the ones that are listed through Witchvox. There were one or two I almost emailed to set up interviews with. But That Little Voice kept pulling me back. I am weary of it being only me and Spooky, this quasi-solitary practice, but I suspect I'd be better off trying to found my own group than attempting to enter one. My issues with the focus of duality will surely cause me trouble trying to enter a coven, and I easily could list half a dozen other things. But, starting my own group, that takes a sort of energy, and experience, I do not have at this time. Maybe I'll look at the Massachusetts-based covens. Maybe something there will seem more "right."

I did manage to finish reading Chapter Four of the Triassic book yesterday. Spooky made spaghetti for dinner.

I think that's all I have for now. Here are the basement photos I promised a few days back. I think, at some point, Spooky and I should find the nerve to spend a night down there. The doorknobs are the best:

Pickman Lived Here )
greygirlbeast: (Sweeny1)
Yesterday. Like a bruise. Like a smudge. Like a stain. I don't know. While I was trying to get my LJ entry posted, fighting the headache and fear of The Red Tree, the wireless decided to go belly up (second time since we've been here), and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. By three o'clock, it was evident that no writing would be done, and that I was becoming far more than merely agitated. I was, in fact, livid. Over more things than I can here list, but let's pretend it was all because of the damned wireless (both the router and modem were fine, the trouble was on the service provider's end of things). Spooky ordered me to get dressed, shoved some pills in my mouth, and dragged me downstairs to the car.

We headed towards Tiverton, in eastern Rhode Island, across the bay, because I need a new athame, and there's a witchcraft shop over there somewhere we'd not checked out. It's even harder to sit in a car when one is livid than to sit at this damned desk. I plugged the iPod into the cassette adapter, and closed my eyes and listened to Radiohead (Hail to the Thief), while Spooky tried to follow the very questionable directions the shop owner had given us. I closed my eyes and listened to the wheels of the car, to the regular, metronomic pulse of pain behind my eyes and Thom Yorke. At some point, I realised we should have reached Tiverton long since, and asked Spooky where we were. She replied we were someplace called Warren, heading south towards Bristol. Which was wrong. Not the way to Tiverton at all. Getting lost in Rhode Island is just stupid. As in, almost impossible. So, I said screw Tiverton, and we headed west again, back through Providence and then down to Wickford. Now, Wickford is a beautiful town, situated on an inlet of Narragansett Bay. All antique shops and tall sail boats. My nerves were calming a bit, though the pain wasn't going anywhere.

Spooky wanted to check out a shop there called The Grateful Heart. But, as it turns out, the place was much more airy-fairy, fluffy-bunny Paganism than anything Wiccan. Still, I needed sage and frankincense (having used a great deal at Beavertail on the Soltsice), and I thought just maybe they would have the athame I'm looking for. The clerk asked if she could help me, and I asked where the athames were kept. She looked at me with a very confused expression. "The what?" she asked. And, I swear to gods, I almost said, "Are you fucking with me?" She blinked a few times, and I said, "Double-bladed dagger, black handled...?" She blinked again and said, "Oh, yeah...those." They didn't have a single one, and I'm still not sure she knew what I was talking about. But it's the sort of place that does aural photography (yes, that's what I said), so what can you expect. I read over a chart explaining the meanings of all the various colours of auras, displayed next to examples of their fuzzy aural photographs. They were all good, all happy. No bad auras. I threatened to have mine photographed, and when they told me that whatever colour they randomly assigned me, whatever happy fucking colour —— orange, purple, red, periwinkle, salmon, avocado —— I'd say that just couldn't possibly be right, not with me being a serial-killing mass murderer who eats baby foetuses and all. Spooky wouldn't let me. Killjoy. I do not have a happy, shiny aura. I refuse. On general fucking principle. I did pick up a small sculpture of Morrigan, however, that I'd been wanting. I desire to know the colour of the Morrigan's aura, please.

We tried to visit another shop called The Herb Wyfe, but it was closed. Probably for the best.

A quick stop at Whole Foods for groceries, then back home, where we still had no internet. There was a Cox truck on our street, messing around with the lines, but by the time Spooky got down there, it was gone. She called Cox, to see if there was an outage in our area, but she was told that information could only be given out to the account holder (our landlord). What the holy goddamn fuck? This inspired a new wave of anger and headache, and Spooky fed me another Valium. I fell asleep on the sofa, after finishing Chapter Three of the Triassic book. I'd tried to start Chapter Four. I awoke almost an hour later, and Spooky fed me spicy stir-fry (beef, with white mushrooms, pea pods, tomato, garlic, ancho chili, ginger, Tellicherry black pepper, cayenne, galangal, lemon grass, paprika, red curry paste, basil, and cilantro) and iced tea.

I did a few hours of Second Life after dinner. I was very hungover (still am), and the rp was touch and go. Mostly, I have realized that, once again, I'm spending far, far too much time in SL. At least in Atlanta, I had an excuse. Boredom. That excuse doesn't work here. So, cutting back as of today. I can has SL (Ceiling Cat says so), but only just so much. I did, however, get a couple of good shots of Labyrinth, the godthing that exists now in the space where Nareth once existed (NOT WORK SAFE). They're not as good as the photos that [livejournal.com profile] blu_muse takes, not even close. Not even as good as Spooky's screencaps (she's getting good). Anyway, that was the train wreck called last yesterday. May it rot in hell. Photos (clouds from Spooky's birthday) and screencaps behind the cut. Oh, and any comments on the new Sirenia Digest would be very welcome today. Oh, and a big thank you to [livejournal.com profile] omegamorningsta for playing "Want" (Recoil) and "Destroy Everything You Touch" (Ladytron):

Towers in the Sky and Labyrinth )
greygirlbeast: (chi2)
So, I awoke at 11 ayem this morning —— an hour or two later than I'd intended —— to connectivity issues with the wireless, and as we have no landline, we were stuck in a holding pattern while Spooky spoke with the landlord, and the landlord spoke back, and the landlord spoke with Cox and our downstairs neighbor. And finally I picked up the modem, asked it nicely, sweetly, firmly, if it wished me to break it. Then I, once again, disconnected the damned thing, reconnected it, and it started working. You just have to know how to talk to these bloody silicon beasts. Still, I'm running two or three hours late, and looking at a day that's going to be, by and large, a write-off. I cannot afford write-offs at this point.

I'd meant to have the photographs of the abandoned amusement park ready for today, but I forgot to edit them last night so...maybe this evening. Or tomorrow.

As for yesterday, well, I'd begun to wonder if I would ever have a "blah day" here in Providence, after three weeks of days that were either wonderful or bad or just sort of okay. No longer do I need to worry. Yesterday was a genuine blah day. Huzzah. We drove down to Moosup Valley, as planned, but it started raining (it's raining again as I type this), and it was raining so hard that the only thing I could really accomplish was getting a good look at the Tyler Free Library. We drove down Barb's Hill road, and it was beautiful and green and wet, rather primeval. Surrendering to the downpour, we headed back to Providence, my having resigned myself to the fact that I must begin the next chapter of The Red Tree without a great deal more research. Right about the time we arrived home, I began to recognize that the "blah factor" had come into play.

What else about yesterday? We started hanging pictures. I finished Chapter 2 of Fraser's book on the Triassic, "A Brief Phylogeny of Triassic Fishes and Tetrapods." I also read a story in the new National Geographic concerning the Jurassic dinosaurs that are coming to light from the Junggar Basin of northwestern China (Guanlong, "Gongusaurus," Yinlong, etc.). I skipped the story on the murder of mountain gorillas; I already hate humanity just fine, thank you. Dinner was the third and final night of the chicken stew, this time with rice and salad, for which Spooky had made a very nice mint, cucumber, and yogurt dressing.

Later, we watched Peter Hyams' 2010 (1984), because Spooky had never seen it, and I'd only seen it once, during the original release. It's not really a bad movie, but it suffers so enormously in comparison to 2001: A Space Odyssey, and how the hell does one watch it and not expect it to live up to that standard? Roy Scheider's voice-over bits are awful. The SFX are hit and miss, and, all in all, it lacks the epic grace and sense of awe present in Kurbrick's film. Too many questions are answered. The best bits are likely Hal and Bob Balaban's performance as Dr. R. Chandra, and watching Jupiter converted to a new star by the millions of monoliths. The ending is cloyingly, naively upbeat, though I suppose that needs to be viewed in light of the period of history during which the film was made. Maybe. Its view of 2010, from the perspective of 2008, is often laughably dated (and I don't know that you can blame the film for this, as the same could be said for many great sf films). I think the worst "prediction" was the proposition that Omni would still be in print. Anyway, it was an okayish way to pass two hours. Later still, there was some Second Life, but I did make it to bed by 3 ayem.

Anyway. There's work I need to try to do, loose-ends to tie off, and so forth. I doubt anything will actually get written today. Too much energy was wasted threatening the wireless. Oh, and it also happens to be Spooky's birthday.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
I think it's a quasi-paradoxical intent, thinking that maybe I can write about these times when I am unable to write. It's hard to miss the contradiction. Never mind that I mostly hate writing about writing, which means I must probably loathe writing about not-writing. But. When it happens, the not-writing, the weather within these walls seems to change, growing increasingly inhospitable, tensed as if it means to spring and disembowel something that cannot run fast enough to escape, angry and desperate, and poised always at the unsatisfied edge of need and reason. The air becomes laced with unseen piano wires. The sensation of waiting comes to define the days. Not expectation, which can often be more pleasant than the thing which one is waiting for. Not expectation, but something else. Another kind of waiting. But not dread, either. If it had a sound, this waiting, it might resemble the spinning of wheels that cannot find traction, the scrabbling of claws that cannot find purchase. And the discomfort it brings me (and anyone near me) is ironic, of course, as I virtually never enjoy writing. I do not feel driven to write, as so many writers claim. I write, because it's what I do. Except for these times when I don't. And then I discover that not-writing is even worse than writing. And yet, quasi-paradoxically, here I am writing about not writing, and it's the best thing I've written in more than a goddamn month.

A storm is coming, and tonight's low will be but one degree Fahrenheit warmer than tomorrow's high. Happy thoughts.

There was work yesterday, and that's better than nothing at all. All the last-minute details that needed my attention before the page proofs for the new Silk mmp (April '08) went back to Penguin. Minutiae. Being certain that hourglass was spelled hourglass throughout and not hour-glass, and that goose bumps was spelled goose bumps and not goosebumps (this confuses me, because gooseflesh — a much older word — is, indeed, gooseflesh). I needed to expand the author's note at the beginning, and write a new author's biography. And find a surname for Walter, who never had one before, something that bugged me endlessly. Also, through three editions of the novel, Byron Langly was sometimes spelled Byron Langley. These are the sorts of things that consumed my yesterday. Before I knew it, the clock had reached 4:30 p.m. and I had to called it as finished as it would ever be so Spooky could get it to the post office before they closed, as the ms. needed to be back in NYC next week. So, yes, there was at least work yesterday, which helped things feel less wrong. Also, I loaded Photoshop onto the still unnamed iMac, so I can hopefully get some work done on the website.

We walked to Videodrome, and the unseasonal nip was mostly gone from the air. Spooky made dinner. I uploaded more photos onto my MySpace page. It has become an odd obsession.

Two movies last night, the worst excuse for a double feature ever. First, Edward Zwick's Blood Diamond (2006), which I thought was very, very good. I've admired Djimon Hounsou since Ridley Scott's Gladiator (2000), and it was good to see him in such a substantial role. But we followed Blood Diamond with William Girdler and David Sheldon's Grizzly (1976). While more typical of our usual Friday Night fare, it was not nearly so much fun as I remembered. Of all the awful Jaws rip-offs, surely this was one of the least excusable and most blatant. A movie which hardly ever permits a break in the dullness. It's not even bad enough to be funny. It's just bad. But now it's out on DVD. After the movies, we worked on Spooky's MySpace page, which is slowly coming together. She wants to get more doll photos loaded this evening. I was in bed before three, but lay awake a long time. I think I was asleep before four. That was yesterday.

Yesterday was a day of eating Tums EX (assorted tropical fruit flavours, or so they do claim).

Anyway, now it is today, and it's time to kick the platypus some more.
greygirlbeast: (platypus2)
Nothing was written yesterday. Nothing that counts.

It has become necessary to bow out of this year's Alabama Bound. I've held off until the last possible moment before announcing this, hoping that the situation might change. It hasn't. To those who were planning to see me there, I apologise. Next year, perhaps. I am beginning to think it would be wiser to simply abandon the idea of any future public appearances altogether. For the record, I am officially not officially appearing at Dragon*Con this year. At the very least, this saves me the trouble of having to cancel farther along.

I have this email, entitled "suffering fools," from Matthew Williams:

Unfortunately, when you started Sirenia Digest, you switched Muses. Some of your work fell into Erato's domain, whereas before you were under the patronage of Melpomene (tragedy) and Polyhymnia (sacred song). And Erato's contract quite clearly has a "suffering fools" rider.

While I find this an interesting observation, the truth is that I have always listened and been accountable only to Madam Calliope. I don't do subcontractors.

And then there's this one from Christopher Wayne, which I thought was rather sweet:

I came across your work late. I started with Alabaster, followed by Threshold, Silk and Daughter of Hounds.

Your writing is wonderful. I read your journal and your characters are true. Some of your characters I can feel a kinship with, or maybe a kinship with me 20 years ago. Especially
Silk and Daughter of Hounds. I felt bad for all of them. They try to do their best, but they are human (mostly). Your characters are not just true, but interesting. This is going to sound funny but almost all of them I would love to have coffee with. Except Dancy.

Trouble seems to follow her just a little too close...

Thank you for your writing, and you take care.

p.s. Ok, I was mean. I would have coffee with Dancy too, just at a coffeehouse that I would not mind losing....


Poor Dancy. Sometimes I think that I should sit down and write an alternate universe wherein Dancy was never stricken with the charge of fighting monsters and almost getting eaten in Savannah and being harassed by angels and all, where she lives a quiet and peaceful and uneventful life. Maybe one day I shall. Thank you, Christopher.

Yesterday...well, there was a nice walk down Sinclair Ave. and back. The weather was much better, though there was still a nip in the air. I frelled around with my MySpace page some more. I exchanged email with my agent and with my editor at Roc. Last night, Spooky made spaghetti. We watched Ace of Cakes and then watched Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, because having just finished the first three books, we both wanted to see it again. Spooky remembered that she had a MySpace page that she'd never done anything with, and we messed about with that a little. I think I went to bed at 2:30 a.m. And that was yesterday, kiddos.

Now, I'm gonna kick the platypus 'till hesheit bleeds daylight...

Postscript: Does anyone out there know anything about MySpace Books? I can't for the life of me figure it out and help would be appreciated.

Oh, and today is Samuel Beckett's 101th birthday, and Ron Perlman's 57th.

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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