Caitlín R. Kiernan

Chilly and bright Outside the House. 52F at the moment.

Not much luck with the story yesterday. The story I'm writing about Mars instead of "Romeo and Juliet Go to Mars." I was still in that finding the way in part of writing the story. I may or may not still be there today. I did find the title: "On a Lee Shore." Also, I read Bradbury's "Dark They Were and Golden-Eyed," originally published in 1949. It's always been one of my favorite Mars stories, and yesterday it helped me understand the story I'm not trying to write.

"On a Lee Shore" takes place on the western edges of the Nereidum Montes, at the northwestern rim of the great Argyre Planitia. In fact, it occurs in the 1,000-meter wide bit of desert in this image (Lat. -40.5 ° [centered], Long. 309.9 ° [east]), in these dunes:



What wonder, that I can say that I'm writing a story set on a planet where a human has never walked, a place hundreds of millions of kilometers away from Earth. And here's so clear an image, taken at a height of 274.5 km (171.5 miles) above the planet's surface (on May 9, 2009, at 3:22 p.m., Local Mars time).

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions, and also at Spooky's Dreaming Squid Dollworks Etsy shop (she's making some really exquisite necklaces lately). Thanks.

We're talking about doing a very short little story together, about a girl who's a goat, or a goat who's a girl. Spooky will draw several pictures, and I'll write the story, and it will appear first in Sirenia Digest. We've never really done anything together before.

Not much else to say about yesterday. I did my exercises, brushed my teeth, answered email, tried Left Hand's milk stout for the first time, got some work done on the Dancy Box, played a little WoW and a lot of CoX (some great rp last night with my new changeling character, Lizbeth Gevaudan, whose actually a 24-Century incarnation of my vampire character, Erzsébetta Bathory), managed not to take a nap, and made it to bed about 3 a.m.

Now, back to Mars.

One year ago today, Sméagol came to live with us. He was called Linus then, but we soon corrected that.

If anyone's interested in gifting Spooky and me with the distractions that help to make this existence bearable, in the form of Solstice gifts, we have both updated our Amazon wish lists. You can find mine here, and you may find hers here. Thank you. This past month has taken a toll on finances, from car troubles to doctor bills, and there's less money than usual for these niceties. CDs, DVDs, books. And we are both perfectly happy with used copies. Thank you kindly.

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Yesterday, I followed a link Neil Clarke (of Clarkesworld Magazine) posted to Twitter, and found a fine little essay/blog entry on writing, in the blog of Damien G. Walter: "Show Me the Writers Taking Risks." It speaks very much to my "writing process" (though I do loathe that phrase), and opens with this quote from Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles (borrowed from Frederico Fellini): "Don’t tell me what I’m doing, I don’t want to know." It moves along to another Bradbury quote: "First you jump off the cliff, then you build the wings." Which is about the best advice I could ever give any would-be writer. Stop plotting. Stop outlining. Stop writing character profiles and fretting over arcs. Kill the spreadsheets. Forget the workshops. This isn't science, and tedium won't save you. Writing is art, which means it's pretty much magic. Peer over the edge, size up the drop, then just fucking jump off the cliff and get to work, because the ground is rushing towards you, or you're rushing towards the ground (it hardly matters which). Just write the damned story. In this short essay, Walter writes:

So many writers seem set on not just building wings, but complete impact survival systems before they even venture to the cliff edge (while others are hurling themselves into the void without even a sense that the ground exists).

Anyway, yes...I suggest you have a look.

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Yesterday, we drove down to Saundertown, to Spooky's parents' place. It was good to get out of the House. It helped to alleviate that feeling that I might, at any moment, shatter. We saw fields blanketed with a thin crust of snow, and we saw stark trees, and a deer at the side of the road. We got a dozen fresh eggs from the farm. We saw a leafless tree burdened with frozen apples. There are photos below, behind the cut.

Last night sort of turned into Revisit TV Shows We Hated the First Time Night. It also became an evening of These Shows Have Improved Somewhat Revelation. First we watched a couple of the most recent episodes of Fringe. Yes, it's improved. We tried to watch the series back when it first began and found it painful and impossible. But things seemed a little tighter last night (absurd science aside). If nothing else, John Noble is entertaining as Dr. Walter Bishop, and I'm seeing depth to the character that was missing early on. And Phillip Broyles isn't bad, but the rest of the cast feels extruded, mass produced, interchangeable. The series has a long way to go to stop being an inferior X-Files knockoff.

We also watched the latest episode of Dollhouse. And, you know, the only thing really keeping the episode from being quite decent was Eliza Dushku, who still can't act her way out of a paper bag. Summer Glau was creepy, and that's a good thing. I know the series has been canceled. And I hate like hell to see Joss Whedon keep hitting the wall like this, but he should have known better than to pin his star to Fox (again) and the talentless Miss Dushku. She can't even convincingly act like a blank doll. Rather, she acts like someone trying and failing to act like a blank doll. But I will watch the next episode, regardless.

So, yes...photos (there's even one of me, and those are growing increasingly rare):

( 6 December 2009 )

I was extremely pleased to learn that Cormac McCarthy has been awarded the Pulitzer Prize in fiction for The Road, despite Oprah Winfrey having inexplicably associated herself with the novel. I guess that just goes to prove the adage about there being no such thing as bad publicity.

I was also very, very glad to find out that an honorary Pulitzer was awarded to Ray Bradbury, who, as far as I know, has been fortunate enough to escape the ravages of Winfrey.

I need a bottle of Bailey's in the worst way, but this is frelling Georgia, and we are all forced to respect the sabbath of the Xtians, so no booze to-day. Someday, the Dark Ages will end, but not this day. Maybe I'll just resort to absinthe this afternoon. I have absinthe. But I waaaant Bailey's.

Anyway...

No new words yesterday, though I spent the whole day in this chair at this desk, my fingers wandering over the keyboard. I tweaked the Bradbury introduction. I sent it to Peter and Ramsey and talked to them about it. They both liked it a great deal and told me to stop tweaking. Also, Ramsey sent me a photograph of a gorgeous spider. I guess I'll e-mail it to Pete Crowther at PS Publishing this afternoon (the introduction, not the spider photo) and call the job done. But it still doesn't feel finished. It doesn't feel good enough by half. But I sort of suspect it never would, no matter how long I worked on it. Never in all my life did I imagine anyone would ask me to introduce a book by Ray Bradbury. Of all the honours bestowed upon me in the last eleven years (the length of time I've been a published author), this is surely one of the highest.

Oh, and I learned from Peter that he has a new book coming out from Cemetery Dance Publications, a collection of his occasional essays and nonfiction and introductions and the like, which will be called Sides (as in "Asides"). I am very pleased to learn it will include the afterword which he wrote for Tales of Pain and Wonder way back in 2000. No word yet on the release date.

Also, my contributor copies of Stephen Jones' The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror (Vol. 17) arrived yesterday. It reprints "La Peau Verte," from To Charles Fort, With Love, and also includes short fiction by Clive Barker, Ramsey Campbell, Joe Hill, China Miéville, Gahan Wilson, Elizabeth Massie, Holly Phillips, Liz Williams, and a whole bunch of other folks (most of whom probably live in civilised places where you can buy booze on Sundays).

I did try to begin a new vignette yesterday, for Tales from the Woeful Platypus, but discovered that it is nigh well impossible for me to think impure thoughts and contemplate weird sex while simultaneously thinking about the works of Ray Bradbury. Make of that what e'er you will.

We had a longer-than-usual walk late in the afternoon. After dinner, we watched Richard Loncraine's adaptation of Richard III (1995), with Ian McKellen, Annette Bening, Robert Downey Jr., and Jim Broadbent, which I'd only seen once before, during its theatrical release. McKellen is wickedly superb. I think this is the beginning of a Shakespeare binge. Before bed, I played two hours of Drakengard 2, which I picked up just to hold me over until the release of Final Fantasy XII, but it's actually turned out to be pretty drad, and I shall likely not have finished it when FFXII arrives next month.

Okay. That's it for now. Words must be made today. By the way, I've been told by the platypus, that Sundays in September are the very best for subscribing to Sirenia Digest. And sheheit should know.

So, about six o'clock yesterday evening, we met Byron at our favourite Thai restaurant, as Thai seemed the appropriate choice for the dinner before one adopts a Siamese cat. Afterwards, the three of us ventured well outside the protective confines of the Perimeter, down I-20 west to Route 6 north through Powder Springs to Hiram (about a thirty-minute drive). Atlanta Persian and Siamese Rescue was holding its daily adoption thingy at the PetSmart in Hiram, otherwise I never would have considered going so far OTP. The sun was setting. I rode in the backseat, which I hardly ever do, and we reached the pet store about seven-thirty. Within moments, we met the cat we'd looked at online, and it was love at first sight. Really. Spooky held him and immediately he put his arms about her neck. So, we loaded up on cat supplies, filled out adoption paperwork, and returned home with our new Siamese boy (the first I've ever had, and my first male cat since 1990 — though in truth, Elvis was Elizabeth's cat, not mine).

He spent the evening roaming about the house, getting to know the place, and, eventually, he finally came to bed and curled up between me and Spooky, where he spent the rest of the night. He's a beautiful seal point, possibly part Tonkinese, with vivid blue eyes, and at some point someone took a small nip out of his left ear. I have only rarely met such a personable Siamese. He was a refugee from somewhere in Illinois, and is about four years old. We named him Hubero, a good solid Nebari name, though his full name is Hubero Padfoot Fuckin' Wu (managing to draw off three different fandoms simultaneously). Here are some photos (behind the cut):

( Hubero Arrives )

This morning, the cat-shaped hole does not gape quite so frelling wide. And, after three months, that's a very good thing.

Not much else to say for yesterday. I took a long bath and washed my hair. I spent some time trying to customize my MySpace blog, but the improvements were minimal. It's still f'ugly. I thought about cleaning my messy office, because Spooky was cleaning the rest of the place, but something distracted me and it remains messy. Last night, while Hubero wandered about, we watched more Firefly ("Trash" and "The Message"). Only two left. I think I got to bed about two.

By breakfast, my dreams had been mercifully forgotten.

I've just noticed that on Amazon.com you can pick up Daughter of Hounds with Alabaster for a mere $27.70. Also, this morning FedEx delivered the galleys for the mass-market paperback of Threshold, and I see that Penguin has slipped in a preview of Daughter of Hounds at the back of the book, after the glossary. It's just a few pages from the prologue, and it ends rather abruptly, but I think it was a smart idea. I expect they'll do the same with the mmps of Low Red Moon and Murder of Angels.

Also, here's a heads-up that the amazingly versatile Peter Straub will be reprising his role as Detective Pete Braust on One Life to Live on September 21st (2 p.m. EST).

Today or tomorrow, we'll be beginning another round of eBay auctions, including a couple of special items. For one, I'm auctioning an unbound, hand-corrected copy of the Daughter of Hounds galleys, and we'll also be offering a lettered copy of Frog Toes and Tentacles, complete with handmade silk and velvet "cozy," the first we've offered since early in the summer. But now I must go write. Today I'm going to begin work on the introduction I've been asked to write for the forthcoming PS Publishing edition of Ray Bradbury's The Day It Rained Forever, as I need to get that off to Pete Crowther ASAP. Hopefully, I can finish it this afternoon.

I have always, since I was a small child, imagined the year as a wheel or a sort of clock. The wheel is divided into four portions: Winter (December—February), Spring (March—May), Summer (June—August), and Autumn (September—November). The new year falls roughly at midnight on the wheel/clock. So, for my part, forget about March 20th or 21st being the first day of Spring. Sure, it's the vernal equinox and a low sabbat, Alban Eiler, Ostara, whatever word one prefers to know it by. That's fine. But, for me, March 1st is always the beginning of spring. Winter ended yesterday. Here in Atlanta, we'll have appropriate springy weather, highs around 71F and sunny and everything is budding and blooming. Yesterday, Spooky and I gathered oak (duir) branches, and I spent part of this morning working them into wreaths and hanging them to dry. Those of you who wish to continue with winter for another three weeks are welcome to do so.

Some niggling git over at Amazon.com, calling itself simply "Gay Liberal Agenda 'I'm coming for you next!'", has posted the following one-star "review" for To Charles Fort, With Love:

Treading water., February 27, 2006: Wake up Caitlin. It's not 1996 anymore! Poppy Z. Brite and Christa Faust have both moved on to other things, maybe you should take a hint!

Yep. That's the whole "review." Its inappropriateness should be obvious, as it completely neglects to discuss the book that it's supposedly commenting upon. Personally, I'd also say that it's inappropriate in that it addresses me in the familiar and fails to insert a comma after "wake up," but let's not get picky. I'd very much appreciate it if those of you who also find offensive the use of Amazon.com's reader's comment feature to annoy authors would click this link to the the book's page and report this to Amazon as inappropriate. In the past, I will admit that Amazon has been very good and prompt about removing this sort of nonsense. Meanwhile, I should ponder where exactly it is this entity thinks I should take a hint and move on to. Perhaps it's time for me to write het chick lit. Maybe I should throw caution to the winds and start writing Westerns. Perhaps I could be the next Larry McMurtry (which is meant as no slight to Mr. McMurtry, whom I rather admire). Maybe, instead of remaining mired in this bog of weird fiction and sf and dark fantasy, which is oh so 1996, I should move along to a series of wildly popular novels about an elderly spinster librarian who, with the help of her taxidermied cat, Mr. Treacle, foils the dastardly plots of a world-wide terrorist syndicate. Yes, Mr. (or Ms.) Gay Liberal Agenda "I'm coming for you next!" definitely has me thinking. Because, clearly, whatever docbrite and faustfatale do, I should do next. After all, that's why they call it art and not follow-the-leader.

Speaking of To Charles Fort, With Love, I am very pleased to announce that "La Peau Verte" has been selected for both John Betancourt's Horror: The Best of 2006 and Stephen Jones' Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, Vol. 17. "La Peau Verte" was always my personal favourite from the collection, followed by "The Dead and the Moonstruck" and "Spindleshanks," and it's drad indeed to see that others agree with me. The moral: drink more absinthe, Caitlín.

Yesterday, Bill Schafer sent me Gail Cross' layout of Ted's cover for Alabaster, and I'm very happy with it. Gail used the same font she used for the "Waycross" chapbook, which seemed right to me. I'm especially pleased there will be no lettering on the spine, which Bill and I agreed would defeat the composition of Ted's painting. Anyway, it's behind the cut, if you wanna have a peek:

( click me )

As for yesterday, there isn't much to say. The black mood began to break apart in the early afternoon, but I was still too...whatever...to begin the new vignette, so, after sending Daughter of Hounds away to my editor in NYC (about twelve hours ahead of the DL), I spent the entire day and much of the night working on paleontology entries for Wikipedia, which has become a new obsession of mine. I completely rewrote the entry for Tylosaurus and added an entry for the hadrosaurine Lophorhothon atopus. That's what a dork I am. Later, we noted Fat Tuesday with red beans and rice and collards and lots of Nutella. No, there's no connection between Mardi Gras and Nutella, at least not one I am aware of, but we were both craving the stuff, so there you go. By the way, Poppy's Mardi Gras photo had me snickering all damn day. Later, we watched Miami Ink, because we both have the hots for Cat Von D, and then I read two stories from Bradbury's The Day It Rained Forever aloud to Spooky, "The Beginning of the End" and "The Time of Going Away." Later still, she studied Jessica Macbeth and Brian Froud's Faerie Oracle while I did a little work with the Ogham cards and my Irish dictionary. Sleep came sometime after 3:30 a.m. And that, kiddos, was my final day of Winter 2006.

More later...

Postscript: That was fast. The niggling git's "review" has already been swept away...

I forgot to mention in this morning's entry that Spooky and I finished Ray Bradbury's From the Dust Returned last night. It's truly a marvelous book, and the ending took me almost entirely by surprise. I'd been wondering how Charles Addams could have done the (gorgeous) cover, when Addams died in 1988 and the book wasn't written until 2000. Bradbury explains in a brief afterword that the novel grew out of his stories about the outré Elliott family (I knew this part, of course), and that, originally he and Charles Addams had planned a picture book which would consist of these interconnected stories, illustrated by Addams. The plans grew out of a Halloween issue of Mademoiselle (October, 1946), you know, back when magazines published fiction, which had centered around his first Elliott family story, "Homecoming." The cover of the novel was originally used for the magazine, which answers my question. Anyway, Bradbury and Addams eventually lost touch and the collaboration never materialized. I was also very amused at Bradbury's account of the difficulties he had publishing in Weird Tales, how they grudgingly accepted a number of stories from him (at a half cent a word), but finally refused to publish "Homecoming" because it "was not about traditional ghosts."

I find this particularly amusing as Weird Tales is the only magazine in the last ten years to reject one of my short stories. I submitted "Paedomorphosis" to them on July 28th, 1998, and it was rejected in short order, the editors citing their discomfort with the sexuality of the characters (they were all lesbians) and the drug use in the story. I haven't bothered with Weird Tales since. "Paedomorphosis" was published in Tales of Pain and Wonder and then reprinted in Song of Cthulhu.

Harlan Ellison introduced me to Ray Bradbury at Dragon*Con in (I think) July of 2000, which is surely one of the draddest things anyone's ever done for me.

Anyway, after we finished From the Dust Returned, which I urge you to read, we began Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and I'm loving it so far.

Postscript — If anyone ever sends me that October 1946 issue of Mademoiselle, they will be rewarded with a kiss or MDS or a story written just for them, whichever he or she or it prefers.