greygirlbeast: (Mary Sue)
Yesterday, I wrote 1,296 words on Chapter Five of Blood Oranges, which puts the word bank at 801 words. Today, with luck and determination, I'll find the chapter's end. But there need to be many fewer distractions today than there were yesterday.

The weather today is warm and damp, with more rain on the way.

[ profile] readingthedark arrived early in the evening, and the three of us had dinner at Trinity Brew House. I had a very raw hamburger, a thing I was greatly desiring. Back home, there was an hour or so of conversation. Not nearly enough. But sex and tentacles, that came up, the octopoid bauplan as an eight-penised vagina, something of the sort. Prehensile penes, at that. But also cats, shaved heads, energy drinks, open sims, polygon mesh vertices, and book trailers.

I wasn't able to get to sleep until after five-fifteen ayem. The sky was going grey and lavender.


Back on the 7th, both [ profile] hollyblack and [ profile] matociquala wrote rather good entries on the "Mary Sue" problem. The misapplication of the term to fiction that isn't fanfic, and other deeper problems with a very problematic phrase and a concept fraught with problems. You can read Holly's post here, and Elizabeth's here. I found myself agreeing with most of what was said in both, which was hardly a surprise.

My only significant quibble would be with Holly's list of what is used to identify a "Mary Sue." Read it for yourself (don't be a lazy bastard), but it basically comes down to one word that repeatedly appears in her list: unrelatable. For example:

The reviewer believes that the female protagonist of the novel is so perfect as to be unrelatable.

The difficulty I have here may only be one of personal habit and preference. I don't see fiction as something I do expecting people to relate to any character. I only expect readers to read and consider and experience the story, to have individual reactions to the various characters, and to draw whatever conclusions they may. I'm most emphatically not doing something in order for people who don't write stories to project themselves onto. So, to me, whether or not a reader can relate is immaterial. I don't see the ability to relate to a character as a prerequisite for, say, sympathizing or empathizing with a character. Otherwise, yep. Brilliant posts, and thank you.

Oh, this bit from [ profile] matociquala, which was basically a quick summation of Holly's quote for those too lazy to follow a link: "It's frankly misogynistic to identify a competent female protagonist as a 'Mary Sue' because she's at the center of her story. She's at the center of her story because she's the goddamn protagonist."

For my part, I continue to maintain the term will never have any authentic utility beyond fanfic, and even then...okay, not going to beat dead horses today. It only attracts flies.

A Bit Player,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Bjorkdroid)
It's comment day, Mouseketeers‎! Um...I mean...kittens.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,558 words on Chapter Five of Blood Oranges. I'm doing my best to go over the 1,150 word minimum for each day – word banking – because I know I'm going to miss three days this month. Three days writing, I mean. One to an appointment with my doctor and a couple more for the Drowning Girl shoot in and around Boston with [ profile] kylecassidy and crew. Right now, the word bank stands at 655 words.

Yesterday, my agent and I also mapped out my workload between now and January...and it's pretty daunting. I may post it tomorrow. Well, then again, maybe not. Regardless, it's a heavy load, even for me. What is this Outside of which you speak? Social life?

Gonna be pretty warm again today.


[ profile] joshrupp emailed to ask (edited for space):

Anyway, I had a question, time and temperament permitting. Why is the term “horror writer” a stigma?...The people we call “horror writers” are telling scary stories, and the people who write about actual horror are called “dark fantasists” or some ambiguous bullshit like that. It’s such a good word ["horror"], and in that sense I’ve always thought of you as a horror writer. How to parse this as a question slightly eludes me, but: If you aren’t a horror writer, what are you? You’ve been talking about triggerpunk, and I’ve never known a trigger to evoke happy-bunnies-sparkly-rainbow-fuzzies. Is the term “horror writer” something you’d ever reclaim, because it’s getting frustrating not knowing how to group people who write about dark things.

Quick and dirty answer.

I'm not a horror writer because I say that I'm not, and this whole art thing is about, among other things, the right to self-determination. That said, "horror" is pretty much the kiss of death in the publishing industry these days. Try to get a good agent while calling yourself a horror writer, and see what I mean. The heyday of genre horror was the seventies and eighties, and by the early nineties it was dying a much-deserved death. Much deserved because it had, as a "genre," as a whole, whored itself raw.

That said, I don't set out to write stories that are intended to scare people. Honestly, never even once do I think I've done that. I write the stories I want to write. And yeah, they're dark. Sometimes, they're so dark you'd be better off calling them jet or ebony or whatever. But darkness does not always equate to the emotion "horror." It may equate to many other emotions (terror, despair, ennui, sorrow, regret, etc.), and often it is from those emotions that the darkness in my stories arises. I'm just spitting up words here, as I write this entry. It's not an essay, and I'm, at best, half awake. So cut me some slack on the rambling.

To define someone's fiction by recourse to a single emotion engages in a sort of literary reductionism that I find grating and, to be blunt, offensive. My writing has worn more labels than I could ever keep up with. Usually, I only find the labeling sort of odd. Usually, it doesn't annoy me. Or rather, it doesn't annoy me so long as it doesn't restrict me. Labels lead to expectation. I want a readership virtually free of expectation – beyond the expectation of well-written prose. I don't want people coming to one of my stories or novels and saying "Well, that didn't scare me." I'm not a thrill ride, and good fiction never sets out to evoke a single emotion. The triggerpunk thing, that was a joke, taking a jab at both the readers who whine about fiction being "triggery" and at those who insist literature must be put into neat boxes. It wasn't a serious proposal. It was satire. But triggerpunk (ugh) is a more accurate description of my writing.

And no, I have no interest in reclaiming horror. It was pretty much never mine (I belonged to the HWA for two years, realized what a nepotistic wankfest it was, and quit in '96), and I don't want it. I see others clinging to it for dear fucking life, and I have no idea why.

It is far more truthful to look at my writing, to look at each piece individually and at the totality of it, and – if you must label it – call it dark fantasy. That's not "ambiguous bullshit." With few exceptions, my fiction is fantasy (excepting some of the harder sf), and, with almost no exceptions, it's dark. But only sometimes is it horrific. Ergo, I refer to myself as a dark fantasist. It's accurate. There's no false advertising. No one out there – no reader, writer, or editor – should feel insulted because I don't call myself a horror writer and ask others not to use that term to describe me. I mean, really. What difference does it make, as long as I write stories worth reading? Fuck the labels.

But thank you for the question, [ profile] joshrupp. I only sound cranky because I'm not awake, and I've been asked, and have felt compelled to answer, this question about five hundred times.

Also, it seems that Grendel's back, albeit rebooted and recast.

And now it's time for my Red Bull.

Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (hatter2)
Sick as a dog. As a sick dog, I mean. I've never understood the whole "sick as a dog" thing, as though the normative canine state is sick. I've also never much understood football, but mostly, these days, I keep my mouth shut about it. Lots of people who get wet over touchdowns can't begin to appreciate the importance of a warlock's staff having +200 to shadow damage or why cool downs are such a bummer. So, live and let live. However, I wake up— not to news that the Packers beat the Steelers 31-25 (I actually had to google that) —but to a slew of articles analyzing and rating the goddamn commercials. And what's more baffling still, a whole bunch of Sturm und Drang about Christina Aguilera screwing up "The Star-Spangled Banner." Are you really surprised? She's Christina Aguilera. You let her sing a song with actual words, bad shit will ensue.


Yeah, sick. Bad night. Worse dreams. Feverish. Achy. Mucus in places mucus ought never be (a few sex-with-aliens scenarios aside).

Yesterday, I wrote 2,155 words on The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. The book grows ever more peculiar. And today, I've set for myself a challenge. Even though I'm sick as a sick dog. Today I mean to write 3,000 words, which is a thing I've never done. Not in one day. My personal best is 2,800+, but never 3,000. I'll probably fail, but I'm going to try. That way, if I'm too sick tomorrow to sit up straight, I won't have to feel guilty about not sitting up straight. I can lie in bed and moan and make Spooky's life miserable with a minimum of guilt.

Last night, Spooky made quadrupedal chicken stew. I don't know where she finds these four- and five-legged chickens, and I don't ask. We watched Fringe and the satisfying pornographic spectacle that is Spartacus. Then I logged into Insilico and spent three hours as a hopelessly broken droid caught between the godlike AI that created her and a human sadist into who's hands she's been delivered. Way more fun than football.

We went to bed and Spooky read to me from Krilanovich's The Orange Eats Creeps. Which was a bad idea, what with being sick and the inevitable nightmares. My bad dreams are bad enough without fucking junkie hobo vampires coming along for the ride.

Time to make the doughnuts. Or dissolve in a puddle of my own phlegm. We'll see. But comment. Cheer me on. Jeer. Whichever.

In Misery and Chagrin,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Default)
Overcast and dreary here in Providence.

Another very good writing day yesterday. I did 1,670 words on The Drowning Girl. Keeping this book's voice on course is a matter of always having to remind myself that I'm writing a book by a schizophrenic, not a book about a schizophrenic. At any rate, the Word Bank grows.

Nothing spectacular about yesterday. It was just a decent day, and those are always welcome. We lit the fireplace for the first time this year. There was a problem with the oven not lightning, but the repair guy came and fixed it. Spooky made corn muffins to go with the second night of chicken and andouille stew. Lately, I love days strewn with mundane events.


Before anyone else gets this wrong, I need to clarify the matter about Rhode Island electing its first independent governor. Lincoln D. Chafee is not a Libertarian, sensu the Libertarian Party. He is a civil libertarian, but that's another thing altogether. I would imagine he's many of the things Libertarians hate. For instance, he opposes eliminating the federal estate tax and, on November 17, 2005, was the only Republican to vote in favor of reinstating the top federal income tax rate of 39.6% on upper-income payers. Moreover, I am not a Libertarian. Moreover, I detest the Libertarian Party and have since college. Were I to categorize myself politically, I'd probably say I'm a far-left leaning Democrat. So, hope we're all clear on that now.


I've been playing lots of City of Heroes and Villains lately. Too much really, which is what happens when I'm having too much fun. I'm not so much crazy about the game part of the game, which I find clunky and unnecessarily tedious. What I love is the huge pool of actual roleplayers who know how to, you know, roleplay. But there is one thing that's begun to wear on me, and it came up again last night, for about the umpteenth time (LJ can spell "umpteenth," but not "LJ"?). When I created my character, I wrote some very particular Lovecraftian stuff into her background. What I did not realize was how much CoX players rely on the "Call of Cthlhu" rpg for their understanding of Lovecraft, rather than relying on Lovecraft's actual writing.

The problem with this is that the rpg is drawn from the "Mythos" invented by August Derleth, and not from HPL. Yes, Derleth likely saved Lovecraft from oblivion, but in the process he managed to mangle the basic Cosmicism if HPL's work. I'm not going into all the whys and wherefores right now, though I'm thinking of devoting a post to it later on. I would refer people to Richard L. Tierney's essay, "The Derleth Mythos," only it's pretty much impossible to find****. I'd refer people to S.T. Joshi's The Rise and Fall of the Cthulhu Mythos, only few people are going to take the time to read what is, essentially, an entire book on the problem of what Lovecraft actually wrote vs. how Derleth rewrote Lovecraft, and how it's the revisionist stuff that has embedded itself so deeply in pop culture (including the "Call of Cthulhu" rpg).

But no, you cannot ward off Nyarlathotep with an elder sign, any more than you can fend off a cometary impact with a Hostess Twinkie. No, elder signs are not like Raid to the Old Ones. No, the Lovecraft Mythos (as opposed to Derleth's "Cthulhu Mythos") is not a battle between "good" and "evil," which is, to quote Derleth, "basically similar" to the Christian Mythos. No, the "Elder Gods" (mostly invented by Derleth and successors) are not powers of "good" at war with the "evil" Great Old Ones. And so on, and so forth.

Mostly, it's becoming clear to me (and Joshi points this out in the aforementioned book) that many who utilize various elements from Lovecraft's writing have never actually read Lovecraft. They've come by his "gods" and various entities and elements and fictional texts secondhand, via such wrongheaded sources as "The Call of Cthulhu" rpg or writers who followed Derleth (such as, ugh, Brian Lumley). Now, I can be very naive, I admit, and this comes as a shock to me. And I will not rp pseudo-Lovecraft. It squicks me out. But I love CoX, and pseudo-Lovecraft is don't know. Maybe I'll just drop all the HPL elements from Erzsébetta's backstory and steer clear of the silly stuff.

I don't want to be off-putting to other players, almost all of whom I've enjoyed rping with, but also can't, in good conscience, as a writer, Lovecraft devotee and HPL scholar, take part in the propagation of the bastardized ideas I've spent so much energy trying to dispel.

I imagine maybe five people who read this blog will give a give a rat's ass about all this. I just had to vent.


Anyhow, donuts and all...

**** My thanks to [ profile] jreynolds for pointing out that Tierney's essay is, in fact, online, so it's not hard to find, and you may read it if you so desire.
greygirlbeast: (The Red Tree)
Cold and clear in Providence. The tree Outside my office window has shed its leaves. Some asshole vandalized both our jack-o'-lanterns. They cut the word "fuck" into one. I wonder if she or he feels that was some grand show of rebellion. Carving "fuck" on a jack-o'-lantern. If so, I'd like to find him or her and offer a lesson, out of pity. Anyway, I fear there will be no pumpkin drop this year. The pumpkin is defaced, and I'm too busy to make the trip to the Saugatucket River.

Sleep was better, thanks to the Sonata I took at 3:30, which allowed me to get to sleep about 5 a.m.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,877 words on The Drowning Girl. Two days down, twenty-eight to go. Since I'm making the 1,500-word-a-day push, I'm going to word bank, like I did the last time I set such a desperate, idiotic goal for myself. How does one word bank? Well, each day I have to write 1,500 words. Whatever I write beyond that goal counts as surplus. Surplus accumulates. For example, the Word Bank has accumulated a surplus of 501 words over the past two days. This surplus protects against the inevitable day when I can't get anything written. A surplus of 1,500 words is a lost day I don't have to worry about quite so much. By the way, while I do approve of writers making themselves write something almost everyday, I do not approve of the sort of thing I'm doing here, and have only resorted to it out of desperation.

A shame, though, that I can't spend the whole month of November on The Drowning Girl. I can only work on it until the 6th. On the 7th, I have to begin work on a longish short story for an sf/f anthology. That's going to take at least two weeks, and then I have to write the contents of Sirenia Digest #60 and get the issue out by the 30th.

My thanks to [ profile] kaz_mahoney for pointing me towards Colleen Mondor's review of "As Red As Red," which I might have missed otherwise.


I'm trying not to think about the elections. The losses, the wins. I'm so weary of fickle, short-sighted Americans. Because President Obama could not solve all their ills and fix the world in two short years, they're changing course, jumping ship, pretty much insuring the President will be even less effective. Things are still bad two years in; jump ship. The next set of politicians are the ones who will hand you that quick fix. Anyway, here in Rhode Island, we've elected the state's first independent governor. No, not some shit-for-brains teabagger. Lincoln D. Chafee is a former Republican, who broke ranks with the party to endorse Obama, and Obama endorsed his run for governor. So, yeah. Rhode Island remains the contrary state, and it could have been worse. Democrats won all other statewide races in Rhode Island.


We have entered the final day of the auction for Study #2 for Yellow. And there are other auctions, and, as always, money's tight. So please have a look. Thanks.


I've been reading about Harry Clarke. And sure, Beardsley was an enormous influence on Clarke, but I think Clarke was actually the more talented illustrator. Of course, his true passion was designing stained-glass windows, though he's most often remembered as an illustrator of Edgar Allan Poe. Also, still making my way through the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology (30:5), including "A Miocene ziphiid (Cetacea: Odontoceti) from Calvert Cliffs, Maryland, USA," "The dentary of Suuwassea emilieae (Sauropoda: Diplodocoidea)," and "The postcranial skeleton of the aquatic parareptile Mesosaurus tenuidens from the Gondwanian Permian."

And now, time to stock the word bank.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
The writing went well yesterday. I did precisely 1,800 words. This puts the Word Bank at 2,196. I call that breathing room, should the need arise. At this point, it's 16 down, 15 days to go. Which sort of made yesterday the top of this tall hill. I am now headed down the other side and shall let gravity do what gravity does.

Good news from my editor yesterday. Daughter of Hounds is still on the Barnes and Noble SF/F trade paperback charts, at #30. If it makes my editor happy, it must be good. I have been disappointed, though, that there have not been more reviews.

Yesterday, the signature sheets for Tales from the Woeful Platypus went away to the printer in Dexter, Michigan. Subpress now has the cover posted, by the way. Those who have preordered the book should have it before much longer.

A nice e-mail from yesterday, courtesy Alan F.:

First things first: I'm a huge fan. I loved Daughter of Hounds, which came as no surprise at all, though when I think about the book now it's this sentence from p. 21 that will always come immediately to mind:

'His eyes are like spoonfuls of fire.'

God, I love that. The humour, too; Odd Willie made me laugh out loud at least half a dozen times (trust me, for me that's impressive).

About your forthcoming SF collection; I agree with one of the posted comments,
A is For Alien is a great title. Although - and assuming the story will be in there - what about calling it Bradbury Weather & Other Stories, which strikes me as a good way to pay homage to the man? Then again, going by the titles of your previous collections, maybe one ending in ...& Other Stories doesn't really work for you...

Thank you. I rather like Bradbury Weather & Other Stories. Or maybe just Bradbury Weather. Anyway, I have some time to figure all this out.

After the writing yesterday, I got dressed and left the house (insert collective gasp here). The weather had turned windy and bitter. Blegh. We drove over to Borders and picked up a copy of Mitch Cullin's Tideland. Gods, bookshops depress me. Then we stopped by Whole Foods for kava. Back home, Spooky made chili for dinner, and then we watched Sam Wood's splendid adaptation of Ernest Hemigway's For Whom the Bell Tolls (1943). I so adore this film — not as much as I adore the novel, but enough to land it in any longish list of my favorite films. And Gary Cooper always does it for me. Plus, Ingrid Bergman at 28 made a perfectly delightful 19 year old. Later, we read the first six chapters of Tideland, which I am happy to report is every bit as wonderful as Terry Gilliam's film version, though they are rather different approaches to the same story. The major difference so far is that while Gilliam's POV is clearly that of a child, Cullin's novel strikes me as a narrative written by an adult about events which occurred during childhood. Cullin may be joining the ranks of my favourite authors.

I've put a bunch of Concrete Blonde on my iPod. They were my favourite band from about 1991 until 1994 or so. I've hardly listened to Free or Bloodletting or Walking in London for ages now, as all these songs take me back to places I'd usually rather not recall. But. Now I'm listening. The music and lyrics hold up marvelously after all these years.

John Lennon, Doctor King, Harvey Milk —
And all for goddamn nothing.
God is a bullet. Have mercy on us everyone.

— Concrete Blonde, Free
greygirlbeast: (Bowie1)
Quite a good writing day yesterday. 1,801 words, which means the Word Bank is looking good at 1,896. Technically, I could now lose a day. Or even take a day off. But I shall endeavor to do no such thing, as there may yet be some emergency. But here I am — 15 down, 16 to go.

I did manage to get out of the house yesterday for a short walk, just over to Freedom Park. Everything is blooming — daisy fleabane, clover, dandelions, etc. There was a wonderful wind from the northwest and spectacular clouds heralding the change in the weather, the sort of sky that makes we want to climb to the top of an especially tall hill, raise my arms, and howl at the sky. The low last night was 52F, which is today's forecast high, with a low of 27F. So, we shall have a taste of winter after all. Spooky made spicy Thai food for dinner. There was not much more to yesterday than that.

We also finished Christopher Priest's The Prestige (1995) last night. On the one hand, it is a fine novel. On the other hand...I find that I have recently acquired an odd reticence to actually criticize the work of other living writers. My reasons, as best I can discern, are twofold:

1) The author might be reading this journal. It's happened before.

2) I've been making my living, such as it is, as a writer since the mid nineties, and it has caused me to look more kindly on the perceived shortcomings of others.

Basically, I wish I could read the way I used to read. I did not dissect as I read. I simply became immersed in the story and let it sweep me happily along. Now I cannot help but dissect. I try not to, but I do anyway. I cannot help but see "flaws" and all the ways I think I could have done this better. I would suspect that all writers are like this, to one degree or another. Writers are the gods of their universes, and we are never at a loss to suggest how some other god might better run herhisits universe/s. At least, this is true of me. It is one reason I read so much less fiction than I did fifteen years ago. And, actually, stage magic is not a bad metaphor for this problem I now have as a reader. I am precisely like a magician watching another magician's act. I should be suckered in with the rest of the crowd. I passionately desire to have the wool pulled over my eyes. Only it very rarely happens, as I'm too busy figuring out how it's all being done and how I could improve upon it.

Which is to say, The Prestige is a fine novel. But I would have done it differently, and I think that means I would have done it better. I cannot help but think that. I also wonder how seeing the film first changed my perception of the novel. Personally, I think it's a book that could stand to lose the first twenty eight pages and the final eleven — the whole present-day frame. It is neither needed, nor are those characters sufficiently well-developed to compete with the meat of the book, the story of the feud between magicians Angier and Borden. If the frame is to be part of the story, at least another one hundred pages is needed to truly make those characters real to the reader. And if the frame goes, I'd also cut Part Three, Kate Angier's diary. Pare this down to the story of magicians Angier and Borden, as the film wisely does, and you do not have a fine novel, you might have a great novel. Or that's the way it seems to me. As it stands, Andrew Westley and Kate Angier and the late 20th Century are only a distraction and the source of a number of problems with the internal logic of the novel. I would also suggest that the story might have been relayed more effectively had "Alfred" Borden and Rupert Angier's journals been broken up and presented in alternating sections. I adore epistolary storytelling, and I usually point to Stoker's Dracula as a stellar example of how this is done well. Alternate between characters.

Nonetheless, it is, as I have twice said, a fine novel. I am not seeking to damn it with faint praise. I just can't help but read it as a novelist. This is, from my perspective, unfortunate. I don't want to know how the trick works. I want to be amazed. I want to be convinced of the magic. But this is what I do. I spend my days gluing words together to try and fool other people. And I can't help but try to see how other writers, especially writers who have found more commercial success than have I, make it work. Sadly, I don't even find the mechanics & theory of fiction writing remotely interesting, which makes this doubly frustrating. It's just a reflex.

Now, it's time to write.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
Something like eight hours of sleep last night, and this morning I am much improved.

I wrote only 631 words yesterday. I am amazed I was able to write anything at all. But, here's the thing. When I set this 1,500-word a day obstacle course for myself, I devised a modest sort of cushion. The Word Bank. Each day I must write 1,500 words, all the way to January 31st. But I knew something would go wrong, eventually. So, I try to write as much more than 1,500 words/per day as possible. Those extra words go into the Word Bank. Savings against a rainy day. As of yesterday, I'd accumulated 1,017 words in the Word Bank. That meant that, to stay on schedule, I had only to write 483 words yesterday. And I actually wrote 631. So, while this leaves the Word Bank momentarily depleted, it does mean I am not yet entirely screwed.

Meanwhile, Spooky learned this morning that Book and Tackle in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, has been demolished. Go back to my entries from our trip to Rhode Island in July and August and there's a photo of Book and Tackle somewhere. It figures. Whatever makes a place special, it cannot much longer endure. They also took out Watch Hill Pizza, which has relocated to Connecticut. I predict that next time we're in Watch Hill, a combo Starbuck's/Dunkin' Donuts will have been erected on the spot, there where the road curves towards to lighthouse, and above the combo there shall be condos. That's the holy commercial triptych of early 21st Century America — Starbuck's, Dunkin' Donuts, and condos (from the low 200s). Okay, well, maybe the Dunkin' Donuts part's not true outside Rhode Island (where one of the damn things occupies every other square foot), but you can substitute some other chain, if you wish. Book and Tackle will be mourned and missed.

My thanks to Sarah C., who writes re: Daughter of Hounds:

I just wanted to tell you that I have been reading your work for the past eight years of my life. I've read and reread my copies of The Dreaming because the stories you wrote are some of my favorite of all The Sandman-type books.

So tonight I went to Powell's bookstore here in Portland Oregon and bought a copy of your latest book. It's now four hours later, and one hundred and fifty-seven pages in. I am tired and excited about going to sleep because I want to wake up fresh faced so I am able to read the rest tomorrow. I hope that this book gets a wide audience of readers, and I will push this on all of my friends. Thanks for filling my head with amazing stories.

157 pp.? Let's see. That's the start of Chapter Four ("Woonsocket"). Anyway, thank you, Sarah. And to everyone else reading this journal, I do hope that if you have not already acquired, by whatever means, a copy of Daughter of Hounds, that you will do so today. There's a lot riding on this one.

Yesterday is all delirium, more or less. A murky blur of sleep deprivation. After the writing, I had a half-hour nap before dinner. Spooky got pizza from Fellini's (the one on Ponce, as the Candler Park location is being remodeled). We read the first 85 pages of Christopher Priest's The Prestige. Aside from the annoying present-day frame, it is quite good.

Right. Now, time to get back on the horse, as They are wont to say. A long day of words ahead of me...


greygirlbeast: (Default)
Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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