greygirlbeast: (Chiana 6)
This is one of those rare mornings when I wake freezing, shivering, headachey, just shy of full-blown hypothermia, somehow having divested myself of all the blankets in the throes of this or that bad dream. And then I need two hours to get warm. Only, according to Spooky, I was actually being a bed hog, and if I'm cold it's my own damn fault.

Yesterday, I did an interview. An important interview. But I cannot yet say for whom or where it will appear. I will tell you as soon as I can. But it ate up more of the day than it should have. Also, I've gotten bloody sick of talking about myself. It's a little easier to talk about Imp or Sarah or Dancy, and almost as accurate since they're all overlapping aspects of me, anyway. To all prospective interviewers and would-be biographers of Me, I say to you, the only biography that's worth a good goddamn, the only truth-be-told, must first be filtered and fictionalized. You reduce the lives of women and men down to mere fact and history, and mostly you'll be left with the banal; if you're lucky, you'll get monotonous tragedy. Mythologize, though, and at least tragedy will seem noble, and even mundanity may be transformed and redeemed.

I am a writer, and my lot in life is to lie constantly, all the while never failing to tell the truth.

Today, I go back to work on "The Lost Language of Mollusca and Crustacea," and hopefully finish it. It will come in Sirenia Digest #73, with a great illustration by Vince Locke, plus Chapter Two of the original (scrapped) attempt to write Silk, plus (!, I hope) a new science-fiction story. I hope. Maybe.

Yesterday, I saw the colored pages for one of the Alabaster stories, colored by Rachelle Rosenberg, and wow.

An announcement. Every morning, or early afternoon, or mid afternoon, I spend anywhere from one to three hours on this journal. An hour and a half is about average, but let's say an hour, because round numbers are easier. That means I journalize seven hours a week, twenty-eight hours a month, three hundred and sixty-five hours a year (or about 15.2 days; and, in truth, a considerably larger sum). Think of all the stories or vignettes or work on novels I could get done in that time. And I've been doing this for more than eleven years, almost every single day! So, I'm thinking that after March, after the release of The Drowning Girl, I'm going to cease this every-goddamn-day blogging thing, this wearisome cataloging of the humdrum events of my humdrum life, and reserve the LJ for news of forthcoming books and of occasional interesting trips, saving untold hours that can be devoted to work, waking up, staring out the window, reading the day's news, et aliae. It's unlikely I'll change my mind.

It's looking now like the "teaser" trailer for The Drowning Girl will go live until January 3rd, due to web-design issues. We have everything in place, it just has to be assembled. The new front page of my website, that is. The thirty-second trailer is edited and ready to post (thank you, Brian!).

Yesterday, well, not much else to tell. I read a pretty good story by David Barr Kirtley (whom, I admit, I'd never heard of before), and before bed I read Stuart Moore's graphic-novel story loosely based on Thomas Ligotti's "The Last Feast of Harlequin (2007), as illustrated by Colleen Doran (I worked with her on an issue of The Dreaming, but, offhand, I can't recall which one). I napped. I watched a PBS documentary on the AZORIAN Project and the 1974 attempt to raise the sunken Soviet submarine K-129. I played Star Wars: The Old Republic. And there was other stuff.

And now, I go forth to think on bivalves and cephalopods.

Warm Now,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Ellen Ripley 1)
Just something quick, because I want to try to get Sirenia Digest #45 out to subscribers by late afternoon.

Yesterday was entirely consumed by proofreading and making corrections to "Werewolf Smile" and "A Paleozoic Dreamquest" (the latter may get a new title). I hate days that involve hours of tedious copyediting.

Also, it has occurred to me that I should write a fictional autobiography. Sure, who the hell's ever going to make a film about my life? No one. But I'm sure that's what Diane Arbus must have thought, as well. And scores of others I can name. So, If I write my own fictional account, which shall be ever so much more interesting that the "facts," perhaps whichever future aspiring filmmaker finds himself obsessed with me will gravitate towards that, instead of all the dumb crap that really happened. All biographies, like all histories, are necessary fictions, anyway. I might as well make an engaging fiction. I'm actually quite serious about this. It comes back to issues of self determination. Perhaps I will use my various alter-egos: Nareth, Scheherazade, Algeria Touchshriek, etc., and anchor it to no one era, no one reality. And yes, I am in debted to Steven Shainberg and his wonderful film, Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus (2006), for this idea.

If you've not already, please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thanks. eBay will not be in the autobiography.

You know a day's going to be weird when you catch yourself making Pee-Wee Herman faces.
greygirlbeast: (mars)
This will be the disorganized sort of entry.

They happen, sometimes.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,197 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars.

It wasn't a bad day, all in all. Just after dark, as we were getting ready to walk, thunderstorms rolled in, and it rained until after midnight, I think. Which was nice, even if we didn't get our walk. What's a little muscle atrophy in the age of automation? I lay on the sofa listening to the rain, smelling it through an open window, talking with Spooky. Nothing on earth is as comforting as the sound of a steady summer rain. All day, the cicadas screamed in the trees, the only creatures that seem to thrive in the heat. The birds are mostly silent throughout the day, emerging at sunset. I don't think I left the house yesterday. No, I didn't. I try not to let that happen these days.

Last night, there was more "comfort TV," first the second episode of Deadwood ("Deep Water") and more Firefly ("Serenity," parts 1 & 2). Earlier, I finally finished Jay Parini's John Steinbeck: A Life, which left me sort of sad and in ill-spirits. I recall, at some point, Poppy ([livejournal.com profile] docbrite) saying to me how the thing she hated about biographies was that they almost all ended the same way, with the main character's death. I kept hoping this book would end before that, but no one will be spared, no one will be spared. No more bios for a while. Instead, I shall move along to The Hunt for the Dawn Monkey: Unearthing the Origins of Monkeys, Apes, and Humans (2004) by Chris Beard. It was a birthday gift from a reader, but I'll be frelled if I can recall from just who. Whoever you were, thanks, because fossil prosimians make me happy.

Regarding Sirenia Digest, yesterday [livejournal.com profile] stsisyphus had this to say about #19:

BTB, my jaw nearly hit the floor when I saw this issue alone was 42 freaking pages (give or take) of either exclusive or hard-to-find content. You don't need poison spurs to convince people that's a good deal.

I'm just trying to take care of my subscribers, whom I really do cherish. And my thanks to the newest subscriber, [livejournal.com profile] alvyarin, who signed up just this morning.

Also, my thanks to Scott Connors and Ron Hilger for sending me The End of the Story: The Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, Volume I, which reached me yesterday. Another beautiful volume from Night Shade Books.

Right. Time to wrap this up. Mars awaits...

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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