The Whore's Daughter

[greygirlbeast]

So, here's the way I see it, and if I am wrong, someone can tell me so. You guys can either get an online journal wherein I occasionally say what I think on a diverse range of subjects not necessarily related to my writing (recently, and the cause of some strife, that Orson Scott Card is a raving homophobe, that I'll be voting for Barack Obama, and that Robert Jordan and Laurell K. Hamilton write "tripe"). OR, we have this other choice. I can keep my mouth shut, like I mostly used to do, and confine this blog to daily word counts and notices about our ongoing eBay auctions. Because you can't have it both ways. If I express my opinions —— which are often contentious, unpopular, unorthodox, whatever —— it is inevitable that I'll offend someone every few days. This morning I received a rather whiny email from someone claiming I'd hurt his feelings because of what I said about Jordan and Hamilton, and so he probably won't be buying any of my books. Night before last, one reader went ballistic in the journal comments over the fact that, while I condemn OSC's hate speech, I support the presidency of Barack Obama (seeing these two things as somehow inextricably linked). And it's true, I do not need to be alienating readers. But it's also true that when I do not give in to my tendency to be a mouthy bitch, this journal gets rather dull. So, which will it be? You want the somewhat unexpurgated me, or the utterly dull and inoffensive me? You can't say, we want you to be honest, then go off on me when you find something I say offensive. You are certainly entitled be be offended. But...this is my LJ, right? And the opinions expressed here are mine. Maybe I'll post a poll later —— reserved and inoffensive, or honest and often offensive. Let you guys decide. Right now, I'm just annoyed at the whiners who want me to know I've hurt their feelings...because, you know, I care.

I just got the news (thank you Doug Miller), via boingboing.net, that I am one of the thirty-one sf authors who will be discussed this month on the Science Fiction Message Board. Specifically, I have been assigned to August 23rd, or that day's been assigned to me, whichever. I'll post about this again nearer to the date, and here's the link to the announcement by Cory Doctorow. I was frankly amused at the person who complained about my inclusion on the list because I write "Vampire romance novels," when I've only written one vampire novel, sixteen years ago, and it wasn't very romantic.

Yesterday was an odd sort of day. A semi-day off, but at least I answered that mountain of email. Spooky baked some very yummy muffins for Lughnasadh (apple, cinnamon, walnuts, and dates). I loaded Sigur Rós' Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust (2008) and Gordon Bok's Seal Djiril's Hymn (1972; my thanks to Sonya for this one) onto the iPod. I took a long, cool bath. That sort of rather aimless, laid-back sort of day. We get too few of those hereabouts. About 5:30, we headed to Beavertail for an informal Lughnasadh ceremony. And here things got a little derailed, and it was likely my fault.

I've always thought that the ruins of Fort Burnside (circa 1942, built to guard the minefield that was placed in Narragansett Bay during WWII) would be a wonderful place for ritual work, especially given that the two circular depressions that each once held a 3-inch gun have an odd and striking resemblance to a megalithic site, as does the old bunker. What I failed to take into account were the nosy people. Why I failed to take this into account is beyond me, as I know well enough that humans are pathologically incapable, in general, of minding their own damn business. As Spooky was beginning to cast the circle, some swamp-yankee goombah with a camera wandered up wanting to know what we were doing. As we worked, we attracted a smallish audience (a child's shrill and repeated scream, "Mommy! What are they doing?!"). And as we were heading back to the car, a woman approached (she was out walking her dog), and she said to Spooky, "I see you two are spiritual people." Spooky stopped to talk to her. I figured she was some harmless New Ager, so I busied myself putting things away. A few minutes later, Spooky shows up, grumbling, and tells me that the woman wanted to know if we'd "...ever thought about Jesus Christ, who created the sea?" It was all Spooky could do to keep me from going after the woman, I think. I was instantly livid. I swear to fuck, I considered making an impromptu human sacrifice to Panthalassa and all the hungry crabs and fishes.

I mean, what if I stood around outside some local Xtian church on Sunday, and when they exited, annoyed the congregation members with questions like, "Have you ever thought about the Morrigan, or Dionysus, or Brighid? What if someone who was Islamic, or Buddhist, or Hindu, or what-the-hell ever did such a rude, thoughtless, arrogant thing? Sure, I know why it's so, as I was raised Catholic and Methodist, but it is truly regrettable that so many Xtians are driven to evangelize, to witness, to annoy the shit out of the rest of us with their religion, when I'd never dare do such a thing. But I don't have to be happy about it. Afterwards, I was so angry I climbed down the cliffs to the sea, to a spot where the incoming tide was especially violent, slamming itself loudly against the rocks, slinging up spray ten or fifteen feet into the air. I sat there and watched the waves and tried not to hate that woman, who seemed to feel that we have so little conviction and so little right to privacy that she could approach us and ask such a goddamn, idiotic question. Spooky was much nicer to her than I'd have been, telling her "Many things made the sea." I'd have probably said, "Yeah, we did the Jesus thing, but, turns out, pagans get better sex. And, by the way, from that sour fucking look on your face, you could probably use some." We stayed with the sea until dark, then headed back to Providence, and got sandwiches from Eastside Market for dinner.

Oh, on the way down to Beavertail, we stopped at Newbury Comics in Warwick. I went in only meaning to get the new director's cut of Alex Proyas' Dark City (1998) and the newly released Doomsday (2008). But it is an evil, seductive place, and so we also picked up the hardback of Joss Whedon's Angel: After the Fall, Vol. 1 and a limited edition book/CD thingy Nick Cave has released to accompany Dig, Lazarus, Dig. Last night, we watched the new cut of Dark City, which runs 111 minutes, versus the theatrical release of 100 minutes. But, those restored eleven minutes make an already brilliant film far less choppy, more subtle, and give it quite a bit more depth. Also, the annoying opening voice-over that was forced on Proyas by the studio has been removed. At the time of the film's original release, I was a friend of a friend of the director's (well, technically, I still am), and knew that he was very displeased with the cut, especially with the voice-over, that gives away the film's fundamental mystery in the first minute. The restored footage concerning the whore's daughter (we don't even see that she has one in the 1998 cut) and Jennifer Connelly's character singing "The Night Has a Thousand Eyes" (vocals performed by Anita Kelsey), were especially welcomed restorations. Anyway, I have always adored this film, and now I adore it even more.

Time to get back in the platypus saddle, back to work, and my thanks to Larry Roberts of Bloodletting Press for giving me a two-week extension on the introduction I agreed to write for S. T. Joshi's forthcoming Arthur Machen collection. Also, my thanks to Ernest Lilley (senior editor at SFRev) for sending me the following photos from my signing at Readercon 19. Spooky's even in most of them:





I have no idea what book I'm signing here.



Neil Clarke of Wyrm Publishing and Clarksworld Magazine on the left, and this is what happens when I try to smile. Oh, you can also see the Chiana mug Theo Black gave me.



Here I am actually signing an old copy of the long-defunct zine The Urbanite, the market to which my story "Paedomorphosis" first sold.



I love this guy, because he brought eleven books for me to sign, including ARCs.

All photos Copyright © Ernest Lilley 2008, used by permission.

Comments

[mrs-ralph.livejournal.com]

I would really rather not have whiners buy my work in the first place. Not that I have turned out any work in a good long while but I found them incredibly difficult to work with and not worth my effort. Considering that all the money I made from a sale went into my pocket (minus materials) that's saying something.

I feel like a blog like this has, or will have, historical value. In the case of a published author it is especially important to future archivists, biographers and even teachers of literature that you not censor yourself because some people think they have the right to judge the opinions of others.

I'm sorry you were harassed by someone who was terribly ignorant. I say she was ignorant because Jesus didn't make the sea no matter what your religious affiliation. It is as annoying as people saying that we need to put 'under god' back in the pledge when it wasn't supposed to be in there in the first place or who argue that prostitution can't be legalised because America is 'one nation under god.' I did have a lovely vision of a bunch of guys in orange togas dancing around, handing out flowers and literature some Sunday in a church parking lot that made me laugh while reading your rant so the balance is restored.

Hang in there and ignore the trolls. It is unlikely they bought more than one book and may well have used that one to prop up the missing leg on the sofa anyway because it didn't have 57 sequels or hot vampire sex in it.

[greygirlbeast.livejournal.com]

I say she was ignorant because Jesus didn't make the sea no matter what your religious affiliation.

I tried to explain this Spooky, who was not raised Xtain, and thought the woman was on crack. I figured the logic ran thusly —— Christ was, literally, the personification of the Hebrew god, and he supposedly made the sea, ergo, Jesus made the sea. After I explained, Spooky looked at me like, "You're fucking kidding me?"

It is unlikely they bought more than one book and may well have used that one to prop up the missing leg on the sofa anyway because it didn't have 57 sequels or hot vampire sex in it.

If only I could, though...my fortune would be secured.

[mrs-ralph.livejournal.com]

The woman obviously wasn't paying attention in Sunday school when they explained the three in one stuff. Spooky lucked out. I wish I could have avoided a couple of decades of 'religious education'.

If you really want to write 57 sequels of hot vampire sex I am sure there is a formula out there somewhere to tell you how to do it. Unfortunately someone would have had to break their brain reading enough books like that to come up with the formula. I suspect a certain author has been reduced to copy-pasting her cyber-sex antics into her manuscripts and more than one popular author appears to be publishing their tabletop role-playing adventures. It makes me wonder sometimes if all you need to write popular fiction is a good porn library and a bag of dice. Personally I prefer stuff that is original and has some character but I guess kids still need something that has 'good parts' to underline and pass around study hall.

[greygirlbeast.livejournal.com]

It makes me wonder sometimes if all you need to write popular fiction is a good porn library and a bag of dice.

Worthy of quotation.

[mrs-ralph.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I am ridiculously flattered. You have my permission (if you feel you need it.)

[tsarina.livejournal.com]

I feel like a blog like this has, or will have, historical value. In the case of a published author it is especially important to future archivists, biographers and even teachers of literature that you not censor yourself because some people think they have the right to judge the opinions of others.

Oh yes! Indeed! As my archivist friend would say - "Won't you please think of the poor, starving grad students? Your one post a day could change their lives!"

Seriously though, it will be a worthwhile thing.