Caitlín R. Kiernan

Spooky's getting ready to take Sméagol back to the vet, because the abscess on his foot has turned into cellulitis. He's spry and eating, no fever and seems to be in no pain, but obviously we're worried (and never mind the damned vet bills). Oh, now Spooky's gone. Well, there you go.

The last couple of days I haven't been in that blogging frame of mind, whatever that blogging frame of mind might be. I think there was a post con crash, which happens sometimes. I'm on for three days, then suddenly I'm off. I'm surrounded by people for three days, then suddenly I'm my old reclusive self again. It didn't help that the last panel I had for Readercon 21, the "Gender and Sexuality in F/SF" late on Sunday, left such a bad taste in my mouth. I keep thinking of things I wish I'd said to the idiot who accused us of being "selfish" for not taking the feelings of readers into account when writing taboo subjects (lesbianism, it seems, is a taboo subject). I wish that I'd said, "Look, asshole. I will never make enough money to own a house. My teeth are shot. I can barely pay my bills. I have no health insurance, and I'll never be able to retire, ever. Writing almost every day for eighteen years has left me with a wrecked body and shot nerves. I need new glasses and can't afford them. The stress of this life led to seizures that have led to the need for medications I can't afford, but have to have, regardless. So, shut the hell up, you tight-assed little twerp, and let me write whatever it is I need to write. It's the only solace I have in this shitty job. I spent four hundred dollars I haven't got to attend this convention, and I'm not paying for the privilege of being called selfish by fools like you." Or something like that.

And I'm not going to start in on the two or three people (all female) who thought books need "warning labels," like "the ingredients list on food," so they wouldn't come upon a scene that offended their precious, fragile sensibilities. And why the fuck am I on about this again?

---

A good writing day yesterday. I did 1,644 words on the Next New Novel, beginning it for the third time. I'll say more about this situation in a few days, when I feel a little more self confident.

Later, we stopped by the farmer's market at the Dexter Training Grounds for fresh corn, and I finally got a new office/writing chair. The one I've had since 2003 or 2004 was, literally, falling apart, and doing horrible things to my back. And by the way, I'm going to make an effort not to talk so much about health and money problems here. It's something I personally find gauche, and would prefer not to ever do. There's just been so damn much of it lately.

Spooky has begun a new round of eBay auctions, which are important, as we have to cover the cost of Readercon and Sméagol's vet bills. So, please have a look. Bid if you are able. In particular, there's the Salammbô T-shirt (art by the astounding Richard A. Kirk), one of the last from the batch of 500 that were printed in 2000 to promote the original release of Tales of Pain and Wonder. We only have four left. We began this auction a couple of weeks ago, then ended it, because I didn't really have time to promote the item. If you're interested in rare stuff related to my work, this is one of the rarest you're going to come across, ever.

---

The last few days, besides writing and house cleaning and cat doctoring, we've been watching Season Two of 24 and Season One of Nip/Tuck. I've been reading Angela Carter's exquisite Wise Children (1991; Kathe Koja's Under the Poppy is next). We've played a little WoW, still trying to get Shah and Suraa through Icecrown. I've been making my way through the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, and read "Tetrapod fauna of the lowermost Usili Formation (Songea Group, Ruhuhu Basin) of southern Tanzania, with a new burnetiid record" and "A new and unusual procolophonid parareptile from the Lower Permian of Texas." I've mostly been sleeping well.

Yesterday, there was cautious relief at the news that BP's latest cap tests have temporarily staunched the flow of oil into the Gulf of Mexico. But I get the impression a lot of people think this means the oil isn't going to start flowing again (though even BP has stressed that it will). And, of course, even if no new oil were to enter the Gulf after today, there's presently almost 200 million gallons of oil befouling the area affected by the petrocalamity.

---

On Tuesday, we took in a matinée of Nimród Antal's Predators, which Spooky and I both enjoyed very much. My complaints are few. I would have liked it to be maybe half an hour longer, as it seemed a little rushed. But the creatures SFX were very good, and I can't get enough of Adrien Brody. John Debney's soundtrack was quite effective. Definitely a film that needs to be seen on a big screen. It's great fun, and I was in need of a Big Monster Movie that's great fun.

We also finally saw the Doctor Who "The End of Time" episodes. I thought the first half was a bit silly, but loved the second half. Has a doctor ever before refused so vehemently to go quietly into that gentle night? I'm going to miss David Tenant something fierce.

Okay...far too long an entry. The platypus says no one's going to read all this. I replied that I will, one year from now.

I'm trying very, very hard to make sure that Sirenia Digest #53 goes out to subscribers by midnight tomorrow night. But I have at least a day's work left to get done on the second piece for the issue, "Workprint." Yesterday, I wrote 1,004 words on the story. On Wednesday, I wrote 1,196 words on it. Today, I mean to find THE END.

Audible.com is now offering audio versions of five of my novels: Threshold, Low Red Moon, Murder of Angels, Daughter of Hounds, and The Red Tree. Right now, I'm listening to The Red Tree. I've made it to the end of Chapter Two, and I'm quite pleased with what I'm hearing. I very much hope people will pick up copies of the audiobooks. By the way, you may listen to samples of the audiobooks at Audible.com.

We've begun a new round of eBay auctions to help defray the cost of my newest (and insanely expensive) anti-seizure medication. At the moment, there are copies of The Dry Salvages, Tales from the Woeful Platypus, and Alabaster. Please have a look. Bid if you are able. The good news is that the new meds appear to be working. Oh, and Spooky has new pendants up at her Etsy Dreaming Squid Dollworks shop, which is another way to help out.

Let's see. What else, quickly? Night before last, we saw Grant Heslov's The Men Who Stare at Goats, which I liked a lot. Late in the evening, we've been reading Patti Smith's autobiography, Just Kids. Also, though I've seen most of Joss Whedon's Dollhouse and found it barely watchable, on Wednesday and Thursday nights we watched "Epitaph One" and "Epitaph Two," respectively. And they were very good, especially "Epitaph One." They were a glimpse of the series that might have been, instead of the sad mess that was. Had the series begun with "Epitaph One," it might have been brilliant television. Those two episodes made me care about characters the rest of the series could not. Hell, in one scene Eliza Dushku came dangerously close to acting. So, it was delightful seeing them, but disheartening, too.

And now...work. Onwards, platypus!

1. Yes, I'm still using the somewhat pathetic crutch of numbered items in my entry. The platypus has given hisherits permission, so it's cool. One day soon— or so I'm told by the voices that speak to me in the dead of night when sleep won't come —my mind will be clear again and I can dispense with these numbers.

2. I am much, much better. However, Spooky contracted the Dread Bug from me, and now she's sick as the proverbial dog.

3. On Friday, thinking I was "well," and feeling a bit of cabin fever, I unwisely convinced Spooky to take me to a matinée screening of Scott Stewart's Legion. Unwise for three reasons: 1) I was actually still sick, and Spooky was just getting sick; 2) It was cold as a midwinter night on Hoth out there; and 3) Scott Stewart's Legion is the lousiest excuse for a movie I've paid to see in a very, very long time. As we were leaving the theatre, I wanted to say, "That's the worst movie about angels I've ever seen." Sadly, that's probably not true, so I didn't say it. I cannot recall an instance of noisy teenagers making fun of a movie I was trying to watch not pissing me off, but there were three who kept cracking wise during Legion, and that's probably the only thing that got me through the film. Spooky almost fell asleep, repeatedly. I'm assuming that Paul Bettany played the archangel Micheal because Vin Diesel was busy with a game of AD&D. Regardless, Bettany delivers what has to stand as one of the most wooden performances in the history of bad movies about angels. The guy that played Gabriel was even worse. Pissed-off angels should not make one chortle. Someone needed to have taken Kevin Durand aside and shown him Tilda Swinton's portrayal of Gabriel, as an example of a creepy, threatful Gabriel done well. Or, hey, they could have shown Durand a bit of Christopher Walken. Or both. In the entire cast, only Charles S. Dutton and Dennis Quaid even tried to act. I think The End of the World, With Red Necks would have made a better title. All in all, it's really a shame, because I was rather intrigued by the film's premise. But instead of taking that premise anywhere worth going, we get rednecks (I mentioned that), the redneck Baby Jesus Mark II, a redneck truck stop, a nonsensical and inconsistent plot, and angels that seemed a lot more like a cross between death knights and gladiators than angels of any stripe. Maybe that's how rednecks imagine angels. I don't know. Like, okay...you're a fucking angel, right? You're fucking Gabriel, to be precise. You do not need some huge-ass Klingon dagger to kill a lousy human. I think that's actually in the Old Testament somewhere. And never mind the machine guns. Just skip this one. Don't even wait for the DVD, unless you're going to zap it in the microwave. Mr. Stewart, if you are reading this, please drop the theological claptrap and go back to doing visual effects for movies that don't suck, made by actual directors.

4. I should be writing about what a wonderful novel is Peter Straub's A Dark Matter, but I refuse to speak at length about such a fine book in the same entry that I speak at length of a shit stain of a movie like Legion, so that's going to have to wait until tomorrow.

5. I have to try to write today, or these deadlines are going to chew me up and shit me out.

6. To my great pleasure, I actually found some very, very good Second Life roleplay last night. My thanks to "Hibiki Ochs" and "Omika Pearl" and whoever built the Insilico sim, because I was just about the ditch SL for the fifteenth time.* Also, Insilico brought a bright spot to an otherwise terribly bad day.

Okay...I let my coffee get cold. Crap.

*The love affair was short lived, Insilico quickly proving to be as disappointing as the rest of SL, despite the shiny candy coating.

Last night was bad, all fever and chills and not much sleep. I seem to be making up for it today, though. I spent most of the late morning and early afternoon curled up in bed with Hubero. Cautiously, I'll say I think the worst is over. Spooky is taking good care of me.

I'm having to admit that nothing more will be done on The Wolf Who Cried Girl until February, and I'm getting more than a bit freaked out about how behind I am. When I feel well enough to write again, I'll be going directly to Sirenia Digest #50.

Okay, I'm going to lie down again.

I've caught something, which, I suppose, is the cost of that magical night in Brooklyn. I'm trying to make headway on Chapter One of The Wolf Who Cried Girl, but it's slow going. Normal entries will resuming when I stop leaking unnameable bodily fluids from various orifices.

A chilly, cloudy day here in Providence. I suppose one would simply say, an autumn day. But the sort that is chilly and cloudy, instead of sunny and crisp and plagued by carnivorous blue skies. Again, as almost all of yesterday was spent in bed, there's not too much to write about. I am feeling quite a bit better today. Maybe by Monday I'll be as near to one hundred percent as I ever get these days.

And I wish I had grand insights into writing to put down here this afternoon. I'd feel less like a bum if I did. It would be something I could pretend was work. But I don't. I can say that I'm bored, and that's about it.

The South County Independent article/interview in now online, and it's also in the hard copy that came out yesterday. Mostly, I talk about The Red Tree and Rhode Island.

The tree outside my window is still green. Most on this street aren't. Many have already lost their leaves.

Vince has delivered the final version of his illustration for Sirenia Digest #47, and I like it very, very much. I'm hoping I can get the digest out tomorrow, but it might be as late as Monday, so I ask for your patience.

The eBay auctions continue. Please have a look.

Yesterday, the postman brought my comp copy of the new Italian translation of The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance (UK/American editions, 2008), which is titled L'ora Dei Vampiri. I still find the inclusion of two of my stories in the volume rather amusing. "Ode to Edvard Munch" and "Untitled 12" in a book of vamp-flavored paranormal romance. Or, two of these things are not like the others. I remain impressed that the editor asked to include them.

Late yesterday, Spooky convinced me to get up and go with her to the last day of this autumn's farmer's market at the Dexter Training Grounds by the Armory. I was glad that I did. The air did me good. I picked up chestnuts and admired baskets of peppers. There are photos behind the cut (below).

Last night, on beyond bored, I convinced Spooky that we should spend the evening binging on Hallowe'en-appropriate movies and whatnot. First, we watched David Moreau and Xavier Palud's Ils (2006; US title, Them). It was very, very good, and made especially effective use of sound. A wonderfully disturbing thriller which I recommend. I cannot say the same for Dario Argento's Jenifer, yet another installment in the lamentable "Masters of Horror" series. I'm not even convinced that Argento directed it. The film didn't look like Argento, or feel like Argento. It was utterly, stupidly awful, and dull, and vapid— the sort of thing that panders to the maladjusted fourteen-year-old boy in far too many adult horror fans. By the third obligatory sex scene (or the second obligatory and unconvincing disemboweling, I can't recall), I was nodding off. Anyway, we followed that with the Hallowe'en episode of Castle. It's the first I'd seen of the series. It wasn't bad, so long as it was only trying to be funny. But when it tried to play "detective series with a straight face," the whole thing fell apart. Still, any excuse to watch Nathan Fillion. And after that, we watched the last two episodes of Angel, "Power Play" and "Not Fade Away," which I love more with each new viewing.

Anyway, here are the photos from yesterday:

( 29 October 2009 )

I'm not well this morning, but I'm not going into the gory details. I just need to rest today, and hope I'm better tomorrow. There's no time now to get more behind than I already am.

Not going to be much to this entry, because I have email that has to be answered, and I can only remain vertical for just so long.

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thanks.

We have another cloudy, rainy, cold day here in Providence.

Yesterday was consumed by the busyness of writing, not by actual writing. However, I've seen Vince's sketch (from which he produces the final artwork) for Sirenia Digest #47, and it looks good.

Last night, when I was only just starting to feel lousy, we did a bit of WoW, leveling our troll characters in Durotar and the Barrens. Mine is a hunter named Jornda, and Spooky's troll is a priest named Manalani. Also, the insomnia seems to be back full force, and it was (again) almost five before I got to sleep.

Yeah, not much of an entry. But there are more photographs from Sunday, taken from two bridges over the Saugatucket River in Wakefield:

( 25 October 2009 )

Also, here are Spooky's sepia-toned photos of the ruined house on Old North Road. They're exquisite, and I think they capture the feel of the place better than the color shots I posted yesterday.

I got absolutely nothing done yesterday. Nothing. A headache started late on Wednesday night, and by yesterday morning was a full-blown migraine. There was not even the hope of writing. I spent much of the day in bed, delirious, dozing, nauseous, and all that fun crap. Finally, very late last night, it backed off. I didn't have to use the power drill.

The month is falling away, and I'm not even sure I've got a decent beginning to my Mars story. I still have that to get written, and Sirenia Digest #47, and something proposal-like for Penguin on the next novel. So, yeah, three stories in twenty-three days. Still feasible, but only just, especially given that I'll be in Manhattan on the 27th, and have the Brown University reading on the 24th. And two interviews. I think I'm about forty-eight hours from panic. I can't panic, of course, because then I'll squander what time I have left. It all has to get done, period.

At least I have managed to get The Ammonite Violin & Others to subpress. Oh, and I have an announcement. The cover art and end papers will be done by Richard A. Kirk, the first time we've gotten to work together since he did the illustration for "Salammbô Redux" for the 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder.

And speaking of Manhattan on the 27th, I've just gotten word that the launch party/reading/signing for Ellen Datlow's Lovecraft Unbound will be held at the Soho Gallery of Digital Art at 138 Sullivan Street on the 27th (a Tuesday) at 7 p.m., with doors open to the public at 6:30. I'll be there, along with Elizabeth Bear, Michael Cisco, and Richard Bowes.

This is one of those days I just want the world to end. Sorry, but it needed to be said.

I slept more than eight hours last night. I think I felt too bad to do otherwise. Early this morning, Spooky and I were awakened by a tremendous clap of thunder. A wonderful storm, but I went right back to sleep.

Yesterday was sort of a disaster. I did write, but only 561 words. Two problems prevented me getting any farther. Firstly, I appear to have picked up a cold at the damned doctor's office (one reason I try to avoid doctor's visits). Secondly, I've reached this last third of the story, and suddenly I'm not sure what happens next. "The Sea Troll's Daughter" is a sort of inversion of the storytelling formula derived from Beowulf, but here at the end, I'm lost. I despise trying to be a clever writer, but there's the sense that the ending hinges upon some bit of clever plotting. So...the story's due on Sunday (and this is the very-much-extended deadline), and I'm uncertain how to proceed. It all needs to wrap up in another two or three thousand words.

I spent much of yesterday in bed, listening to Spooky read to me. There just wasn't energy for much else. I feel quite a bit better today. With luck, I'm past the worst of whatever it is I've contracted. I'd really like to stop writing blog entries about illness.

I found something I wrote last year on July 1st, regarding the length of novels, that I thought I'd repost:

This is an old gripe with me, and one that has direct bearing on the writing of The Red Tree. Many of my favourite novels are, in fact, quite short, and certainly far under 100K words. For example, The Haunting of Hill House, Cannery Row, Grendel, The Wasp Factory, The Road, Billy Budd, Turn of the Screw, and Ironweed. The list could go on and on. Great novels, many under 75k, or even 50k, words in length. But I was made to sign a contract that specified a novel that would be 100k words in length. So, rather than allowing the novel to be as long (or, rather, as short) as is needed for the story at hand, I must attempt to push, to pad it, stretch it, or try to convince my publisher to accept a shorter book. And one should never, ever force a story to do anything that is not required of it. There, that's an actual piece of writing advice. I will confess that, being generally disinterested in the ins and outs of publishing, the reasons for this bloating of the American novel escape me. If I had to guess, though, I'd point back to the rise of the blockbuster novel in the 1970s and 1980s. Often, these were thick books. Very thick books. Obscenely, unnecessarily thick books. The example that leaps immediately to mind is Stephen King's It (1986). Could have been half as long, and would have been better for it. But then I still maintain that the original version of The Stand (1978) was far and away better that the longer 1990 publication (which, among other unwise things, "updated" the story from 1980 to 1990). Or look at J.K. Rowling. The books get fatter as the phenom of Harry Potter grows, and that last one is so flabby as to be almost unreadable. Anyway, if I point to the oft-bloated bestsellers as a trend, then maybe I can also suggest that this led to a sort of reader expectation. "Good books are long." Something like that. "I want my money's worth." Along those lines. I can easily imagine many indiscriminate readers buying into (and/or actually creating) this expectation. It becomes, in a consumerist world, a question not of quality, but of quantity. Books have become, in the last twenty or thirty years, unreasonably expensive. So, who wants to spend the same amount of money on a "thin" novel when they can "get their money's worth" with a fat one? Frankly, I think that people thinking of novels the same way they think of pizzas is one of the signs of the Apocalypse.

Regardless, I'm looking at where I am at this stage of The Red Tree, and I'm guessing that it's a 75k-word novel, maybe. I've written a little more than 20k words at this point, which means I'm getting a feel for its length. Which leaves me with difficult decisions ahead of me. And, I should say, I am not inherently opposed to long novels. Not at all. If they need to be long. Moby Dick, The Lord of the Rings, Watership Down, Dune. It's just that I am opposed to the idea that novels must be long. Bigger is not, we are beginning to see, better. All-you-can-eat-buffets, Hummers and SUVs, those grotesquely vast McMansions, the human population, and the bloated novel...all these things rely on the lie that more is, by definition, better, when, in fact, many times, it's disastrous.

As it turned out, for better or worse, The Red Tree eventually ran to 100,860 words.

Okay, need to try to go get some work done now, says Herr Platypus. But please have a look at the eBay auctions. Thanks!

The things I hear in this House. Spooky just said, "Awwwww. A rainbow muffin made by a the chipmunk lesbian." I couldn't invent this stuff up if I tried.

Yesterday, not long after I posted my journal entry, sometime around noon, I had the first seizure I've had since June 6th and the worst seizure I've had in a long, long time. But two hours later, I was up and moving, because I don't have the good sense the natural selection gave a June bug. And I spent the day feeling like I was in a heavy fog, straining to think through a pea-soup mist, but (with the help of Gordon, who is a saint), I got Sirenia Digest #43 out by 11 p.m., godsdammit. So, take that, treacherous brainmeats.

However, now that the digest is finished (until next month), Spooky's is making me go Outside today to see my neurologist, because the seizure was that bad. I have no idea how we'll pay for this, because I'm only a silly little freelance, undeserving of either health insurance or nationalized health care. But there you go.

Not much else to yesterday. It was all fits and platypus lashes.

I did get word, late last night, that a certain seeping, pustulent herpes sore of a woman who is 77.9% responsible for my finally having had enough of Second Life is now trying to insinuate her way into an acquaintances sim. So, I'm broadcasting an emergency message: [Begin transmission] Glory, please, please, if you value your sim and/or your sanity, please do NOT allow O anywhere near SF. Please trust me, if only on this one thing. She will connive and she will lie and she will wheedle her way in as far as she can wheedle, further than you can imagine, until——oh, I don't know—— she has the password to your SL account. She's the most virulent sort of fungus, and we're still not sure how she is capable of manifesting a human personage. I've kept quiet about the specifics of my leaving SL until now, and I'm only breaking radio silence because I don't want to see her grubby paws ruin another rp. She is the very definition of ooc drama, and is utterly incapable of discerning RL from rp. Even Toxia ran her off, fer chris'sakes (think about that). [End of transmission.]

Sorry about that. I know most of you have absolutely no idea what I'm on about, but that's a good thing.

Anyway...I should wrap this up. Please do have a look at the current eBay stuff, because now there's not only ReaderCon, there's also this upcoming doctor bill. Thank you. And please, I'd love to hear some feedback about this issue of Sirenia Digest. Don't be shy.

And here is my daily dose of Concrete Blonde: