The Best Sort of Weird

That is, the sort you cannot immediately place your finger on. But, looking at the image, you know that something's wrong. Beautiful.



Another Russian artist, of course.

"Halloed and whitewashed..."

Yesterday, I wrote 2,238 words on Chapter Eight of The Red Tree. And so I have made good on my promise to myself to write at least 2k words on three consecutive days —— Friday, Saturday, and Sunday —— making up for the three days I lost this month (lost for various reasons, all beyond my control, but wasted nonetheless). Indeed, I did better than I expected, hoping at best to manage 6000 words, and getting, instead, 6,545 words. Also, having finished yesterday, I discovered that I'd reached the end of Chapter Eight, and it's not THE END of the novel, as I'd thought it would be. What I mean to say is that I decided that Chapter Eight was going on a bit long, and so there will be a shortish ninth chapter to finish things up ("...and that spells 'moon'!") I've reached that point where I feel as though I am racing towards the conclusion. And, as usual, it brings a peculiar alloy of joy and fear, dread and relief. It absolutely doesn't help to know what's coming. Regardless, I calculate that the book will likely be "finished" on either the 23rd or 24th, on Thursday or Friday.

And there's all this other work waiting....

As for books that I have already sent out into the world to seek my fortune, you can now pre-order the forthcoming trade paperback edition of Alabaster from Subterranean Press. Also, subpress is still taking pre-orders for my first sf collection, A is for Alien, and the third edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder is still available. And, of course, there are all my novels, including the recent mass-market paperback of Daughter of Hounds.

There was a very nice Halloween package from my mother yesterday. Spooky and I now have "wicked" socks.

Last night, I read an article in Science on the discovery of what may prove to be the oldest known rocks (from northern Quebec) on Earth, part of the planet's proto-crust, dating back 4.3 billion years. Oh, and an article on light pollution and the importance of darkness in the new National Geographic. Then, after spaghetti, we watched Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow, which remains one of my favourite Halloween films and one of my favourite Tim Burton films.

Then there was WoW. My blood-elf warlock, Shaharrazad, with the aid of her minion and Spooky's blood-elf paladin, Suraa, attacked a dwarf keep and retrieved a certain sword, which is now safely back in the hands of the Horde. Shah also reached Lvl 28, allowing me to return to my Lvl 13 Draenei hunter, Voimakas. I want to get all three of my characters at roughly the same level, so that switching between them is not quite so jarring. Voimakas made two levels last night, reaching 15. I'll play her now until we reach 28, then rotate back to Mithwen, my night-elf fighter, who has been languishing in the Wetlands. Her mail has quite likely rusted by now. Oh, and Shah can now summon a succubus named Drusneth. Dru was clearly created with horny, heterosexual 14-year-old boys in mind, and by people who never even imagined that grown women might play this game. I'd be offended, were it not all so...stupid. At this point, Spooky and I (or Suraa and Shah) are only keeping Dru around because they find her such a useful commodity, her fighting and spellcasting abilities making up for her inherently annoying nature. If I had my druthers, there would be a tad less camp in WoW. The Halloween (er, I mean Hallow's End) decorations and gags and "accomplishments" are driving me to distraction. I do not believe for even a moment that the Draenei would have huge jack-o-lanterns stuck up inside their crashed starship, or that orcs ride flying broomsticks. Whimsy is all fine and good, but at some point, disbelief reasserts itself.

And now I must go. The platypus says so.