Caitlín R. Kiernan

So, I see a headline like "Christian biologist fired for beliefs, suit says", and I then read that the beliefs in question are his rejection of evolutionary theory for young-earth creationism, and all I can really think to say is, "Well, I certainly hope so." Followed by something like, "How did he get the job in the first damn place, never mind his Ph. D.?" This is pretty much the same thing as your doctor denying germ theory or a Harvard astronomy professor rejecting Copernicus or a NASA engineer setting aside algebraic number theory in favour of, oh, say dowsing or computing rocket trajectories by the reading of chicken intestines. If people choose willful ignorance over science, well, that fine. Free thought and all, but they cannot then expect to find themselves working at prestigious scientific institutions. No, you may not have your backwards-ass, Old-Testament thumpin' cake and eat it, too.

By the way, Spooky's dad, an anthropologist, works with Woods Hole.

Colleen Mondor has written a very nice review of Alabaster for Bookslut. And yesterday, Bill Schafer of subpress e-mailed to tell me that the book is selling well. Now, if only my books from Roc would sell as well as my books from subpress; remember, you can order Daughter of Hounds with Alabaster from Amazon.com for only $27.20.

Yesterday went well enough. I wrote until 5:28 p.m. and did another 833 words on "Untitled 23," which I hope to finish today. I read more Angela Carter, "Peter and the Wolf" (1982), and we made a trip over to Emory's Woodruff Library. I came back with Lizzie Borden: The Legend, the Truth, the Final Chapter by Arnold R. Brown (Rutledge Hill Press, 1991), Lovecraft at Last: The Master of Horror in His Own Words (Willis Conover, ed.; Cooper Square Press, 2002), and The Cult of Alien Gods: H. P. Lovecraft and Extraterrestrial Pop Culture by Jason Colavito (Prometheus Books, 2005). The latter is proving a delight, as it examines the connection between Lovecraft's mythology of alien "gods" visiting earth and shaping the course of human history with the ancient-astronaut and lost-civilization "theories" of various New Age and pseudosceintific crazes. Later, after warming up Tuesday's stoup, we watched Mythbusters and Project Runway. At last, finally, we are rid of Vincent! I loved Jeffrey's dress, and Uli's, too. Later, I read yet more Angela Carter, "Master" (1974), followed by Thomas Ligotti's "The Shadow at the Bottom of the World" (from Grimscribe: His Life and Works, 1991). I adore this tale, with its sublime language, masterful suggestion, and echoes of Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space." If ever I were to edit a collection of the most important Weird tales of the late 20th Century, "The Shadow at the Bottom of the World" would definitely be included. Anyway, that was yesterday.

Spooky worked on the Barker. I think she got his pants made. He's proving a difficult old fart to dress.

Oh, I was informed by Robert Morrish that Thrillers 2 should be out from Cemetery Dance Publications before the end of the year. It includes two long stories by me, both "Houses Under the Sea" and "The Daughter of the Four of Pentacles".

Also, I wanted to link to this article from LiveScience.com, which sclerotic_rings was good enough to point out, concerning continuing and conflicting claims by creationists of the discovery of "Noah's Ark." I recall when I was teaching BY 104 at UAB, back in '86 and '87. I'd begin the first lecture of each quarter by stating that there would be absolutely no discussion of creationism, as the domain of the course was evolutionary biology, not religion. Once, a student protested, insisting that "Noah's Ark" had been discovered by scientists on Mt. Ararat in Turkey. I asked her which particular time she was referring to, as my familiarity with creationist lit allowed me to site three or four separate "discoveries" made on entirely different parts of the mountain. She looked embarrassed, shut up, and the subject was not raised again.

Anyway, the time has come to find THE END. Again. Actually, it's sort of like finding "Noah's Ark," now that I think about it. No matter how many times I claim to have found it, THE END will always turn up somewhere else, farther along.

I awoke at 7:45 this morning (I was up until almost 3 a.m.) and wasn't able to get back to sleep again. I didn't wake Spooky until 10:30, which marked a full 48 hrs. that I'd gone without speaking. I hate being awake alone that early, especially when it's so bitterly cold. There's a terrible hollowness, a disquieting amplification of sound, a sense of isolation. I drank pink lemonade Kool-Aid and puttered about online and allowed myself to read things I shouldn't read, and by the time I woke Spooky, my mood was black and brittle. Which it still is. Likely, it'll stay that way for days. I'm tempted to go back to bed. At least it's warm beneath the blankets. I could spend the day reading. I really don't see why I shouldn't do just that. Or board the cat and drive to Miami. One or the other.

I'm not sure what the temperature is right now. Last I checked, it was 27F, with a windchill of 21F. Ugh. And sunny, to boot. Injury, meet insult. Insult, meet injury. For many, many years, I have loved living in old places. The carriage house in Athens. The converted overalls factory in Birmingham. The former Kirkwood Elementary School. But I think this building, which is simply impossible to heat, may finally drive me into the temperate arms of modernity.

I'd hoped to be in better spirits for Solstice. I just have to keep telling myself, this is as bad as it gets. Tomorrow, the days will begin to grow longer again. Another couple of months, and we'll get the first signs of spring.

Yesterday, I did 1,001 words on "Bainbridge," adding the new first section I'd suspected was needed. Each word came only with great reluctance, kicking and screaming. I spoke (by e-mail) with Bill Schafer about including a few B&W photos in my afterword for Alabaster, photos of places mentioned in the stories, as I'd done with Trilobite: The Writing of Threshold, and he agreed it would be a good thing, so I probably shall. My agent's supposed to call today, but seeing as how all NYC is in chaos from the transit strike, I won't be surprised if I don't hear from her.

The whole silence thing...well, it was undeniably weird, but mostly weird in a good way. Towards the end, I even began to think it might be preferable. Much more thought went into each attempt to communicate with Spooky. Nothing was said carelessly. It's something I wish I'd done twenty years ago. Today, speaking seems very peculiar. There's almost a surreal quality to my own voice. In a few days, I'm to go 24 hrs. without seeing, and I expect that to be a much more harrowing experience.

This frelling cold weather. I might at least be writing a winter story right now, instead of a short story set in southwestern Georgia in June. Maybe I should put it aside and write some Nebari fic, perhaps another script for setsuled. Something abysmally frigid, so cold it would make this day seem warm by comparison.

There's a little good news, of course. The creationist yahoos running the public schools in Dover, Pennsylvania have been told that it's unconstitutional to ram religion down the throats of biology students. Judge John Jones stated that it wasn't possible for "intelligent design" to hide its ties to creationism and, hence, its ties to Xtianity. You may download a PDF of the full 139-page decision here. I rather like what Neil had to say: The "why this is not an activist decision by an activist judge" bit on page 137 is terrific, although you're best off getting there the hard way, starting at page 1, including slogging through the appalling behaviour of the people on the School Board who started it, who, despite feeling it was important to expell Darwin (and Darwin's finches) and get the Old Testament God back in the classroom, had somehow managed to fail to realise that any of that stuff in the Bible about bearing false witness applied to them. Of course, none of this is going to phase the idiots who run Pensacola's Dinosaur Adventure Land Theme Park...

Yeah. Okay. I suppose it's time to write. Maybe if my agent does get through today, she can remind me why I shouldn't give this up and find a way to go back to school.

The first day of subscription gathering went quite well. I sincerely hope it goes even better today. If you indicated interest but haven't yet subscribed to Sirenia Digest, the monthly erotic vignette subscription service, just click here. You should read the FAQ, then proceed to the "subscribe" page. I'm really quite excited about this project. My thanks to everyone who has subscribed so far. By the way, if you wish your subscription to be delivered to a different e-mail address than the one on your PayPal account, please e-mail Spooky (zquid_zoup@yahoo.com) and she'll see it goes where you want it to go.

I really am very curious about Kate Wilhelm's rationale for telling aspiring sf/fantasy writers to avoid contractions unless absolutely necessary. I've been paging through my favourite sf stories and novels, just to be sure my memories were correct. They are. Contractions galore. And I like contractions. I use them as often as I can. They make otherwise rigid, unnaturally formal prose into something that seems more like the way people think and speak. If a character says, "I cannot possibly do that. I do not know why you would ask me to!" it means quite a different thing than if the character says "I can't possibly do that. I don't know why you'd ask me to!." The presence or absence of contractions changes the mood and something fundamental about the character. This seems obvious to me. I have noticed that lots and lots of newer sf tales are almost (and oddly) devoid of contractions, so I assume this is becoming some sort of conventional wisdom. Me, I shall stick with my contractions, at least until they pry them from my cold, dead hands, and I suggest you do likewise.

The writing didn't go so well yesterday. For one thing, I was far too excited about Sirenia Digest to focus for very long, and, for another, I'd reached a point, so near THE END, where I have to be absolutely certain of what happens next and what the repercussions will be. I wrote only 229 words on Chapter Ten. At least they're 229 good words. I expect to do better today. I sort of have to. I have to finish this book and get Threshold proofed for the mass-market paperback edition before December 1st. Time's a wastin'. After the writing yesterday, we took Sophie to the park again. As soon as we arrived, we were greeted by an enormous hawk. I'm not sure of the species, and we have several, but it was a glorious bird. Sadly, Sophie's park experience was ruined yesterday by some fekkik who showed up with five rowdy English setters that he couldn't be bothered to control. At one point, we had to literally beat one back with a stick. Shortly afterwards, many of the other dog owners in the park converged on him. I don't know what was said, but he took his doggy thugs and left soon after. Atlanta has a leash law for a reason. I'm thinking of printing up fliers and taping them to trees all around the park, reminding people there's a $150 fine for letting dogs run wild in a park that is meant for more things than dog frolicking. I've nothing against dogs, mind you. Though I'm a "cat person," I rather like them. Ah, well...the weather was nice, anyway. We got up into the low eighties yesterday. Today, I think they're calling for mid-sixties. That's autumn in Georgia. Back home, after dinner Spooky and I celebrated the launch of the erotica thingy with French absinthe and Indonesian cloves. Much later, I watched Miller's Crossing on FMC. It's on my list of the 100 best movies ever, and it was the perfect way to end the day. I went to bed about 3 a.m. and lay awake another half hour, thinking about the book and the dash to THE END.

Oh, I also started work on an e-mail interview last night and was reminded that Anita Nicker, who interviewed me for Subterranean, will soon be interviewing me for the subpress newsletter, and we have to arrange a meeting. I don't like doing face-to-face interviews, but Anita's drad, so it's okay.

It's not bad enough that the Kansas Board of Education is actively dumbing down science classes and promoting creationism. No. To prove beyond any shadow of a doubt that they have no fear whatsoever of being laughed at or of churning out scientifically illiterate graduates, the Board has now rewritten "the definition of science, so that it is no longer limited to the search for natural explanations of phenomena." (for the full article, click here). Back in the eighties, creationists tried to redefine religion to make it more scientific. Having failed, they're apparently now determined to cut to the chase and redefine science! Just how far do these dolts have to go before the idiocy they inflict upon students becomes something criminal? Farther than this, it would seem. I shudder to think.

Okay, well it's time to write. Remember — subscribe today!

Yesterday was consumed by the busyness of writing, and I had to admit that it had been fairly wonderful, having spent five consecutive days consumed with the act of writing. I signed the signature sheets for The Merewife. I plowed through a bunch of e-mail. Ted Naifeh and I talked about doing an Alabaster panel at Dragon*Con 2006. I lamented not being in a position, financially, to go to the World Fantasy Convention in Madison this year. Truthfully, I don't know how so many writers can afford to do three or four or five cons a year. I do not know the secret. Anyway, what I didn't do was spend the day lying on a blanket in the park, half asleep, recovering from the end of Chapter Nine of Daughter of Hounds and preparing for the start of Chapter Ten, which was all I'd wanted to do. Nonetheless, I will do my best to begin Chapter Ten today. The beginning of the end. The beginning of THE END. I was telling Spooky last night that this ms. feels like a great unedited film, like I'm almost done with primary shooting and now I have months of post-production work ahead of me, and I've never had a novel ms. feel that way before. It's not a good feeling.

I've come to expect almost anything from my dreams, but I really don't expect them to be fun. Yet, last night, it would seem that I had a fun dream. I can't recall striking my head against any hard surfaces yesterday. Anyway, I was at a pirate party. That is, it was a party, and almost everyone there was a pirate of one sort of another, except for the mermaids and a bunch of Japanese girls dressed as cyborgs. And I was Nar'eth, and I was playing a game that was almost chess, but a little like shooting craps, with Mary Read and Anne Bonny. We were smoking opium from long-stemmed pipes carved from the teeth of sperm whales. Somewhere in the noisy, smoky room, there were crossdressing Thai boy whores, and a woman having sex with a very large horse. And nothing in particular happened. It went on that way for quite some time. We played several games of the chess/craps game, drank rum from hollowed-out pineapples (I don't like rum, but Nar'eth probably would), and regaled each other with tales of sea monsters and buried treasure. If I could dream like this every night, I'd never want to be awake.

Here in the "real" world, last night Spooky and I were determined to find just the right films for Halloween Kindernacht, films that, even if they weren't good, would at least be enjoyable. We started out with Roger Corman's Attack of the Giant Leeches (1959), which is sort of like The Creature from the Black Lagoon, only with hayseeds instead of marine biologists and geologists. Spooky observed that the monsters looked like Patrick from Spongebob Squarepants, only with tentacles, and I was hard pressed to disagree. We followed this with a film neither of us had seen — Lemora: A Child's Tale of the Supernatural (1973; also known as Lady Dracula, Lemora, the Lady Dracula, and The Legendary Curse of Lemora, directed and written by Richard Blackburn, the guy who went on to write Eaiting Raoul). It more than made up for all the rubber-suited foolishness of the mutant leeches. Truly, this is a brilliantly weird film. I know now that Dame Darcy is capable of time travel, because she is clearly the true inspiration for the film, along with The Shadow Over Innsmouth and In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers. If you have not seen this bizarre wonder (and I think most people haven't), track it down at once. If the Coen Bros. could be persuaded to remake this film, it would be the draddest thing imaginable. Afterwards, Spooky fell asleep, and I watched Rope (1948) on TCM.

More of the new Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology yesterday — "The nature of Mauisaurus hassti Hector, 1874 (Reptilia; Plesiosauria)." Oh, and on a somewhat related note, word of a new CBS poll reminding us that, though they are entirely reliant upon science for their way of life, most Americans are still living in the frelling Middle Ages when it comes to actually understanding the most fundamental scientific principles: "Just 15 percent say humans evolved, and that God was not involved." This isn't exactly news, but it's still damned depressing, and it makes me wonder how many of the poll's participants would also give a thumbs-up to the Easter Bunny, a flat earth, gay Republicans, and El Chupacabra.

And speaking of polls, the poll to guage interest in me doing a $10/per month weird erotic vignette by subscription service is still being watched. As of right now, 80 people have asked to be included. Spooky and I have begun laying out exactly how the service will be operated, and I'll post the details as they're worked out. I'm very excited about the project and hope more people will decide to participate. Remember, if you can't vote in the poll but want to be included, drop me an e-mail (at lowredmail@mac.com) or chime in on the "Vignette Subscription" thread on the phorum. Thanks. Now, Chapter Ten ahoy!