Caitlín R. Kiernan

I'm almost awake.

Today, 121 years ago, August 20, 1890, 9:00 a.m., Howard Philips Lovecraft was born in his family home at 194 Angell Street here in Providence.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,206 words on Chapter Seven of Blood Oranges. It is remotely possible that I could finish the chapter today, if I can push to 2,500 or 3,000 words. Or unless there's a lot less remaining of the chapter than I think (this seems unlikely). But if I could do this, I would have written a chapter in a mere four days.

Someone commented, a couple of days back, that they thought Blood Oranges might be a "game changer" for me (I think it was opalblack ; if I'm wrong, please correct me). And I have to say no. No. It's a momentary diversion, something mostly fun to write, and a little bit of insurance. Truthfully, it's The Drowning Girl: A Memoir that we're all counting on to be the game changer. It's the novel that matters. Blood Oranges is just a bit of whimsy sparkling at the side of the road. Metaphors have been mixed here, I'm quite certain.

Email from Michael Zulli yesterday, which I need to answer before I begin writing today.

Last night was a bit saner than the night before, in terms of post-writing recreational activities. We played a couple of hours of Rift (mostly in the Droughtlands and Stillmoor), then watched Vincent Ward's adaptation of What Dreams May Come (1998; from the 1978 novel by Richard Matheson). For all its schmaltz and smarm, I gotta admit I have a very soft spot for the film, which I'd only seen once before, during its theatrical run. On the one hand there are the astounding visuals, and...on the other...well, sometimes, we don't have to explain ourselves. We just love a thing for what it is. Period. "It's a beautiful dream. But it's only a dream" Even as a pagan atheist, it gets me, on the level that any good fantasy hits me. Also, there's the Werner Herzog cameo. After the movie, we read more of The Stand, and I think I got to sleep about 4 ayem.

I'm going to go ahead and announce next month's book early (and I'm still trying to live down that business with Carrie Ryan; many hours of self-flagellation with a dead cat have been involved). Next month will be Shirley Jackson's The Sundial (1958), which I hope won't be too hard to find. But I wanted something I know is brilliantly written, and that a lot of readers here might be unfamiliar with.

And now...I should go. Many words to write before Insilico and Telara and Captain Trips.

Have a kindly thought for the Old Gent today. Tip your hat to a night gaunt.

Squamously,
Aunt Beast

Most people don't think of this as a birthday song. I guess the video makes it that way for me.

On this day, in 1964, in a deep-sea hydrothermal vent, almost ten thousand feet down along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, I squiggled forth from beds of giant tube worms and albino crustaceans. I drew my first watery breath, sucking in superheated brine, belched forth by black smokers and loaded with nutritious sulfides and acetyl thioesters, and then wailing with the abyssal cries of newborn whales, I rose.

Since then, though, I must admit it's been a bit anticlimactic. No cometary impact (Jupiter doesn't count). Still no return of the Great Old Ones. And my damned gills won't grow back. But, hey...I get cake.

And wonderful people send me wonderful things. Tomorrow, I'll try to make as full an accounting of that as possible.

---

Yesterday, I wrote a very respectable 2,149 words, and found the conclusion of Chapter Two of Blood Oranges. As it stands, I'm on page 83, and have written the first 18,292 words of what I intend to be a 75,000-word novel (at most). Two chapters in eleven days. Booya.

I must tell you – again – that Spooky is having a CRK's Birthday Sale on the jewelry at her Dreaming Squid Dollworks and Sundries Etsy shop, and shipping is FREE, and everything's selling fast, so have a look. You really need to see her new Alice's Adventures in Wonderland glass-vial pendants. There's a coupon code you'll need to use at checkout: CRKBIRTHDAY

Last night, we watched Peter Weir's The Last Wave (1977). It came up during conversation with Joshi on Tuesday night. I count it as one of a tiny handful of films that gets Lovecraftian right. Now, here I mean films that express the cosmicism of HPL, as distinct from his "Cthulhu Mythos" tales. Truly, there are only a few. John Carpenter's The Thing (1982), Ridley Scott's Alien (1979), and two or three more. But nothing by Stuart Gordon. One day I'll provide an actual list.

Also, yesterday I saw the cover for the Crimson Alphabet chapbook, and it's gorgeous (comes FREE with the limited edition of Two Worlds and In Between: The Best of Caitlín R. Kiernan (Volume One)).

After the movie, we played Rift, and my necromancer, Selwyn, made Level 42. And, because good pushers always provide FREE samples, there are some Selwyn screencaps behind the cut though, reduced to this size, they don't even begin to do the visuals justice. And I shall remind you, WE HAVE A GUILD, and there's a FREE 7-day trial now available! Fun for boys and girls and everything in between!

Um...I better go now. Spooky's making that face.

( Selwyn of the Spire )

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they'd made.
And the sign flashed out it's warning,
In the words that it was forming...

---

I am so very not awake. Still, it would be a decent enough day to entertain comments, so please feel free. To comment. I'll be here all day. Anyway, I took all the proper pills, but was still awake until almost five ayem. Sometimes, the old neurochemistry insists on having it's way, pills or no. Which is actually oddly comforting. The triumph of Nature over Pharmacy, even if it's annoying Nature. Then again, if I lived a more natural life, in a more natural world, I might not be suckling at the teat of the Pharmacy.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,790 words on Chapter Two of Blood Oranges. Yesterday, someone asked me of the novel, "Is there any tongue-in-cheek left?" Thinking on that question, and having talked it over with Spooky, I think the answer is yes. But it's not really a spoof or a satire. It's simplest to point to Tarantino's films. Is Kill Bill a spoof or a satire? No, not really. It's keenly aware of the layers of homage within it, and it often pokes fun at itself and the source material. But it also has an undeniable reverence for and fascination with that source material. Ergo, more homage, less satire. This goes back to the danger of setting out to do...well, anything. I really do hate ParaRom (which, by the way, I'm told by reliable sources is quickly waning in sales and popularity). But I also really do love the sources it draws upon. Also, I can only manage comedy for short bursts. I could never write a book that's funny page-to-page. Blood Oranges is keenly aware of the layers of homage within it, and it often pokes fun at itself and the source material. It frequently rolls its eyes. I've never written anything so forthrightly concerned with pop culture (in this case, what pop culture would have us believe about monsters).

Sometimes, we set out to make fun of a thing, then discover it's not really worth making fun of...well, not at tiresome length. Comedy can quickly become dull. Instead, we discover this other thing that's a lot more interesting. The "werepire" novel began as a joke; any joke that tries to go on for a hundred thousand words is doomed from the start.

---

We have a new round of eBay auctions. And here were are, my 47th birthday imminent. I have a wishlist at Amazon, and yeah, it's a little late, but ain't nothin' wrong with late gifts, right?

Yesterday, I read "A partial skeleton of the Late Cretaceous lamniform shark, Archaeolamna kopingensis, the Pierre Shale of western Kansas, U.S.A," in the January JVP.

Last night, we watched David Slade's adaptation of 30 Days of Night again. And it's actually a much better film than I remembered it being. There are big problems (pacing, for example), but it still delivers, and few films in recent memory have had such memorable vampires. Alien, gleefully vicious, sexy despite their repulsiveness...all the things vampires ought to be.

And then we played Rift. And then we read Kathe Koja. Then...well, back where this entry began.

And that's my cue to get to work.

Blearily,
Aunt Beast

Another sunny day in Providence, but the temperature's only 73F. It'll be cooler than yesterday. The window's open, and I can smell a hint of the sea.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,140 words on "The Maltese Unicorn." I'm very nervous about this one, because, in numerous ways, it's something I haven't done before. Spooky says it's coming along nicely, and she's usually right. I think my main concern right now is length. I realized yesterday that I'd plotted something that could very easily be a novella, and that I'm going to have to work to stay within my word limit. Which is sort of like editing a film, deciding what winds up on the "cutting-room floor" and what goes into that final cut that people get to see. Yesterday, I kept having to snip out pieces of dialogue, not because they were bad. They were, in fact, rather good (if I do say so myself, and I did). Dialogue may end up being one of the best things about this story.

This would be a very, very good day to preorder your copy of The Ammonite Violin & Others. So far, it's gotten nothing but rave reviews, which is a huge relief.

I'd very much like to go to the sea today— to the sound of the waves, the gulls, the wind, the peace —but it's Memorial day, and the beaches will be crawling with noisy, drunken tourists celebrating nothing in particular except a day off and legal alcohol. So...maybe later in the week.

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A quick, but important, note to readers, and I do wish it were not necessary to write this. I understand that by keeping this journal, and being on Facebook and Twitter, I am "putting myself out there." In this age, many artists are more accessible than at any other time in history, yes. However, that doesn't mean there are not still boundaries, or that the boundaries don't vary between one artist and another, or that you've been given full access to their lives. In this case, my life. I love getting email from readers, and comments to the journal, and responses on Facebook and Twitter, and I often reply. However, some people do not seem to grasp the necessity of boundaries, or the rights to privacy that I still claim. I'm speaking to a very small minority here. As in, if you've sent me a dozen emails in the past month, please don't write me a thirteenth sounding all hangdog because I've only answered one or two. Do not expect me to hold your hand as you read my books and stories. Do not think that my having "friended" you on Facebook or LJ means we're, you know, actual real-life friends. Do not expect me to follow you on Twitter. I should think these things would be common sense, but a few rather vocal people don't seem to get it. So, please, think before asking more of me than I freely give. And sure, it might only take me a second or two to reply to any given question or request, but those seconds add up. And, more importantly, I simply may not feel like replying, and there's nothing wrong with my feeling that way.

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Last night I was too tired from all the writing to read. Well, except for a paper in the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, "A new baenid turtle from the Upper Cretaceous (Maastrichtian) Hell Creek Formation of North Dakota and preliminary taxonomic review of the Cretaceous Baenidae." The new taxon is named Gamerabaena, and the authors note, under etymology, "'Gamera refers to the fictional, firebreathing turtle from the 1965 movie Gamera, in allusion to his fire-breathing capabilities and the Hell Creek Formation..."

Spooky's birthday present, a PS3— made possible by donations from incredibly, marvelously generous readers —arrived early. We ordered it early, to be sure it arrived on time, and it arrived much sooner than expected. So, we've been downloading demos, and I've been playing Heavenly Sword (2007). I gotta say, Heavenly Sword is, hands down, the most beautiful videogame I've ever seen. I think it actually manages to beat Shadow of the Colossus (2005). And it doesn't hurt in the least that you get Andy Serkis and Anna Torv. Later in the evening, we went on something of a WoW binge, which I've not done in a while. We got Gnomnclature and Klausgnomi to Level 19. Soon now, they'll not have to run everywhere they go.

Anyway...time to make the words.

Er...yeah. Wednesday. Crap. Where is this week going? Well, yesterday it went to fighting with our wireless connection, and then revising my Publisher's Weekly review (as per my editor's request), and then a whole bunch of stuff that needed doing to finish up Sirenia Digest and get it ready to go out today. There was more to that than I expected, and, reluctantly, I must announce that the "artist profiles" I'd hope to begin in #31 (June '08) will actually begin with #32. It's not Geoffrey Goodwin's fault; I want to make that clear. Sometimes, things just don't go as planned. Anyway, subscribers will be getting #31 sometime this afternoon, and it includes two stories by me —— "Unter den Augen des Mondes" and "The Melusine (1898)." The latter includes a really grand illustration by Vince.

My thanks to tjcrowley, without whom I would not know that today is Ambrose Bierce's birthday. Also, this is the 30th anniversary of the creation of the Gay Pride Flag. So, I'll try to be (as Shirley Manson said) the queerest of the queer today.

After all the work, I gave the rest of the day over to Spooky's birthday. She wanted to go to Newbury Comics, and as I owed her presents, we went. Sadly, it's in the Providence Place Mall (we should've gone to Warwick), which was full of really obnoxious teenagers. I have decided, as of yesterday, it's not "kids these days," it's "kids period." Anyway, she scored Tom Waits' Orphans (2006) and a really cool-looking card/20-sided die game called Unspeakable Words, sort of Lovecraftian Scrabble. It even comes with little green Cthulhu idols. Oh, and the draddest Kermit the Frog pin EVER. We fled the mall and headed south to get Spooky's birthday dinner from Iggy's in Narragansett. On the way down, there were great cumulus clouds in the sky, and I got some photos (maybe tomorrow), towering and threatening more thunderstorms. We had Manhattan-style chowder and doughboys and root beer, sitting near the lighthouse at Point Judith. Two very cute dykes were cuddling in the grass nearby, snapping photos of themselves. The tide was coming in. We headed home just before dark, and listened to the Beatles all the way back to Providence.

A really strange and unnerving night of rp in Second Life last night. I have no idea how to synopsize those bizarre events. Suffice to say that Nareth has fallen to Shadows, hard and far, and is now in a very, very dark place, the darkest in Toxia. It was always only a matter if time. If she's not dead, she's something far worse, and has been lost to the Omega Institute (thank you Lorne, Pontifex, Omega, Ardere, Kytara, et al.). I think it was the first time that an SL roleplay session actually frightened me.

And, as promised, the photos of the abandoned amusement park we visited on Sunday (behind the cut):

( The Not-So Enchanted Forest, Hope Valley, RI )

And, from Poe's Haunted (2000)

And here by the ocean, the sky's full of leaves.
And what they can tell you depends on what you believe.
The ash is a tree, and the voices were three,
And all that is gone is here sweeping through me.
It's amazing.
It's a maze.

And, while we're at it, in the words of astronaut David Bowman, "My God, it's full of stars."

Yesterday I wrote 1,303 words on a piece that, for now, is known simply as "Untitled 27." I started with a sentence about the passage of time, uncertain where it was headed, but now it's looking a bit like "Untitled 23" — the piece about the wayward faerie girl and the Queen of Decay (Sirenia Digest #10) — filtered through certain Smashing Pumpkins and NIN songs ("Right Where You Belong" from With Teeth springs to mind). And with "male" characters instead of "female" characters. And as Bowie's Baby Grace Blue says, "I think something is going to be horrid." I'm liking it.

And here I am, Day Three of the Mordorian Death March, though there will be no actual marching again today. Tomorrow, though, I'll head out across Nurn, bound for the River Guthrant, beyond which I should be able to locate Thaurband and the Thaur Road. I will be merciless.

There were thunderstorms again yesterday evening. I love evening thunderstorms. After dinner, after the rain, Spooky and I walked. And then we watched My Fair Lady (1964) on TCM, and then I had a bath, and then we just talked for a couple of hours. Trying to figure out how to get from Atlanta to New England for good, once and for all. If I could do it without selling all this goddamn furniture. We're still thinking about Salem, which would be wonderful, and about Providence, maybe some place like Wakefield or Peacedale. If I had my druthers, we would be moving to Cambridge, but the rents are sky high anywhere that near Boston. Most of my life has been lived in the South, and I do fear the new England winters, but there's nothing here for me, nothing but inertia. Nothing but the weather, and that hardly seems a good reason to keep Spooky in exile. And I know we talked about other things, but they escape me just now. Spooky fell asleep about two thirty, but I was up until 4 a.m. or so reading Parini's Steinbeck biography.

Spooky just this second added a new bird to our "yard list": a Great Crested Flycatcher (Myiarchus crinitus). Cool.

I guess that's it for now. My grateful thanks to the folks who have sent me birthday gifts, as we near the 26th and the Big -03. This year I have told Spooky I would like a German-chocolate cake. There hasn't been a cake the last couple of years; at least, I don't think there has been. But this feels like a cake birthday. Anyway, yeah, the wish list is here, should you like to contribute to the Great Distraction of 2007. The platypus says that I have to go write now. I am slave to a monotreme...

I woke at 9 frelling a.m., got up and sat at the desk a few minutes, then said screw it, it's my gorram birthday and went back to bed. And woke at 11 with Sophie's blood sugar too high because she was supposed to get her breakfast and insulin at 10:30, and Spooky's a little freaked out, and this is what I get for sleeping in (and letting her do likewise). *sigh* Anyway, here it is. -2. Last night, I was thinking, wow, I was technically alive when John F. Kennedy was president. I was born about six months after his assassination. Which world is this again?

Time is a heavy damn rock.

My thanks to everyone who has sent well-wishes and/or gifts (and thanks to those who have yet to do so). Special thanks to Gordon (thingunderthest), Jada and Katharine (jadakath), Franklin (grandmofhelsing), Larne (brokensymmetry), David (corucia), Christa (faustfatale), William, Adelaida, Charlie, Amy, Sonya (sovay), and Jackie. Biggest thanks to Spooky. You guys make me feel not so alone as the days rush by.

Yesterday was spent proofreading and editing "Ode to Edvard Munch" and "The Black Alphabet" for Sirenia Digest #6. And, again, I must say, I'm really happy about the latter. So is Spooky. Now, I just hope others feel the same way. It's like a box of chocolate cordials, and some are very sweet, and others are only strangely spicy inside, and others, well, you'll see. If you've subscribed. Also, late last night, I got Vince's rough sketch for the "Ode to Edvard Munch" illustration, and it's gorgeous.

I also cleaned my office. Sort of. Which is to say I could not be bothered to dust nor to sweep. It's still a vast improvement.

I'm still trying to decide what's to become of my MySpace account and my silly Amazon.com "plog." I just can seem to bring myself to give publication rights for my journal entries to those asshole corporations for frelling free. Especially with MySpace being owned by Rupert Murdoch. I suspect they shall both simply sit there, gathering dust until I've forgotten about them.

Last night, another favourite ep of Farscape ("A Constellation of Doubt"), followed by the final three eps of Dead Like Me. On the one hand, I'm quite sad that there will be no more George and no more Rube and no more Mason and so on. But on the other, I thought the last ep ("Haunted") wrapped things up rather artfully. I don't know if that was intentional or not, if the creators knew the cancellation was coming. But that last ep works well as an ending. Which makes it not quite so bad. I just cannot abide unfinished stories.

At 2:30, I was in bed (isn't this where we came in), reading a redescription of the theropods Ornitholestes and Coelurus, my eyes crossing with exhaustion. Zoe Keating on the little Hello Kitty stereo thingy we keep in the bedroom. A thunderstorm approaching. It wasn't such a bad way to begin one's -2 birthday.