Caitlín R. Kiernan

I just needed this again...

One of the things about being a freelancer – and here I mean the sort with nothing resembling a regular gig, the sort who lives hand to mouth, short story to novel to short story and so forth – is that there's a lot of waking-up time. You might have to worry about paying the bills, but you can take three hours to chase the sleep away. But now, because of The Secret, I'm another sort of writer, and I'm having to get used to rolling out of bed and hitting the floor running, frosty, eyes wide, bright and shiny, Cap'n. I'm getting very good at faking awake and articulate.

I actually slept eight and a half hours last night.

Yesterday, I worked. A lot.

I just got word of the Decemberists EP that comes out on November 1, and there's the new Tom Waits next week. Music madness!

This morning, Spooky kindly made me eggs and bacon for breakfast. These days, left to my own devices, my usual breakfast is a can of Campbell's vegetarian vegetable soup. And now I have my sugar-free Red Bull, so all is right and Ceiling Cat is in his clouds, rubbing shoulders with the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

I wish I had a good Hallowe'en party to attend this year, But, likely I shall not. Likely, we shall attend the Molten Masquerade, the annual iron pour at The Steel Yard, where over 500 pounds of liquid steel will flow beneath the night skies of Providence. It's hard to think of a better way to welcome Samhain. I mean, hard to think of a better way to welcome Samhain that doesn't involve nudity. And a sacrificial Scientologist.

A favor, please. If you've received your copy of Two Worlds and In Between: The Best of Caitlín R. Kiernan (Volume One), please leave a comment to that effect (and your location, if you don't mind). I just like watching my new books spread, like a pandemic.

Last night, after work, after Spooky went to the farmer's market, after meatloaf, we played RIFT for...a while. And then we read more of Colin Meloy and Carson Ellis' Wildwood. While Spooky read aloud, I used astronomy "apps" on Kermit to explore Mars and then the Moon. Ah, and yesterday I also managed to read four (!!!!) papers in the latest issue of the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology: "A new Barremian (Early Cretaceous) ichthyosaur from western Russia," "A Carboniferous emblomere tail with supraneural radials," "The first temnospondyl amphibian from Japan," and "New evidence of large Permo-Triassic dicynodonts (Synapsida) from Australia."

And that was the best of yesterday. And now I will leave you with five more randomly chosen "behind the scenes" photos taken by Ryan Anas during last weekend's shoot for The Drowning Girl: A Memoir trailer. However, these are so random, I think I'll add captions:

( Ryan's Behind the Scenes, Part Two )

I've just been told that Twitter has taken credit for the Russian Revolution.

Today is Darwin Day.

Here in Providence, the smallest fraction of snow has melted. The cold hangs in the air, thick as soup. In the the house, the house I do not leave, I suspect the humidity is in the single digits. The air is crisp, and it crackles when I walk through a room. A migraine came to visit yesterday, and I'm better this morning, but it's still very close.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,281 words on the eighth chapter of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, despite the headache. Later, perhaps because of the headache, the final fifth of the novel occurred to me with almost perfect clarity, pieces falling into place, blindsided by revelation. Solutions to problems, problems I was not even sure existed. And this is why I detest proposals and outlines. This is how I discover a story, by writing it. I never could have imagined the end of the novel, because to learn that end I had to blindly travel the road of the book.

After the writing, we proofed "Night Story 1973," for Two Worlds and In Between. I wrote the story with docbrite back in 2000.

Answers to the current Question @ Hand— If you were to make of me— of my actual, physical body —a work of art, what would it be? —have almost all involved my death, a procession of postmortem art crimes. And that's entirely cool. But I'm beginning to wonder if I left readers with the impression that my death was a necessary part of their answers. It's not. You may actually work with the living flesh. Go ahead. I won't bite...

Last night, we watched Antti-Jussi Annila's Sauna (2008), and oh my fucking dog what a brilliant fucking film. I has been a long time since I've been genuinely disturbed by a film on the level that Sauna unnerved me. It's an exploration of the Wrong Thing, of the limits of human comprehension when faced with the unknowable. That which hides behind the back of God, to paraphrase the film. The cinematography is exquisite. There are five-second shots that communicate more dread and awe than most "horror" films manage in their entirety. Every frame of film is invested with quiet tension. Seriously, see this. If I made movies, it's the sort of film I'd be trying to make.

We also read the first six chapters of blackholly's White Cat. Actually, some time back, Spooky listened to the audiobook, read by Jessie Eisenberg, so she's already "read" it, but it's new to me. Very good so far.

A much appreciated package from Steven Lubold yesterday, which included a biography of Mary Anning, the most recent Mouse Guard hardback, and the new Decemberists album, The King is Dead. I already have a favorite track— "Don't Carry It All" –though I expect that by tomorrow I'll have a new favorite track off the disc. A box can brighten a day. Thank you, Steven.

I've been working on "As Red as Red" since...frankly, I'm not certain. Sometime before March 13th, when I actually thought of the title. A fucking long time, for a short story that looks like it's going to come in at about 6,000 words. Yesterday, I seized it by the nape of its scruffy neck, determined that I will finish the piece this afternoon. Spooky and I began the day yesterday by reading over everything that's been written thus far. And then we did something I almost never do. We plotted. That is, talked through specifically what will happen in the final two thousand words of the story. Then I sat down and wrote 1,039 words.

In the end, yesterday felt like I'd finally achieved the requisite momentum to escape some terrible gravity well. I think I can easily manage the end of the story today, which is good, because I have Sirenia Digest #40 to write, and the CEM for The Red Tree was overnighted to me from Manhattan yesterday, so it should be landing on the doorstep with an audible thud at almost any moment (though as I said, Spooky's mostly handling it). So, yes, today I finish "As Red as Red," which has elements of both vampire and werewolf stories, though, in the end, it's more a ghost story. Which I should have seen coming, as in the New England vampire tradition, (incidents ranging from 1793-1898), vampires are essentially incorporeal anthropohagic phantoms. The writing yesterday was assisted enormously, by the way, by a P. J. Harvey song, "Liverpool Tide," that Sonya (sovay) kindly sent my way. And big thank-yous to Spooky and also to Donovan Wilcox, who both did a lot of research for me yesterday, stuff that will make things go far, far smoother today. You guys rock.

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When the writing was done, we drove down to Warwick, to Newbury Comics, and scored a copy of the new Decemberists album wicked cheap. Just $7.99. We listened to the whole disc maybe five times last night (there are 17 tracks). And at first, my reaction was sort of, "Well, this is different." An hour or so later, I was thinking, "This is fucking brilliant." By midnight or so, I'd decided The Hazards of Love is my favourite Decemberists album thus far. Borrowing liberally from "Tam Lin" and other ballads, it's a thunderous, angry, vicious, poignant, lilting, beautiful song cycle. A folk-rock/acid-rock opera, and, really, I don't think I've heard anything else quite like it. I suspect this is an album Colin Meloy has been wanting to make for years, and, in hindsight, The Crane Wife feels like it was a warm up for The Hazards of Love. At the moment, I'm most fond of "The Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid" and "The Rake's Song," though it's really not possible to pull out individual songs. It all fits too snuggly together. I am especially taken with Shara Worden's (of My Brightest Diamond) vocals. The woman sings like someone possessed by the ghost of Janis Joplin. Honestly, you simply have to hear this CD to understand. I can talk about the second coming of Fairport Convention (backed by Jimi Hendrix) all day long, and it won't make any sense until you hear it. Oh, and Robyn Hitchcock pitches in, too.

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Last night, while listening to The Hazards of Love, I WoWed (new stupid verb for a twittering world), mostly running errands for the orcs in Orgrimmar, way out in Feralas. And I accidentally leveled Shaharrazad up to 63 (really, it just suddenly happened; I wasn't trying). I also got my first "achievement" since February 21st. I even have a screenshot (behind the cut) of Shah astride her felsteed in Northern Ferales, at the falls above the Forgotten Coast.

( Shaharrazad in Feralas )

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This morning I was surprised to discover there's actually a CRK Facebook group thingy, which is cool, I do suppose.

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Finally, a couple of weeks ago, Spooky discovered an unfinished Monster Doodle sculpture hiding in one of her drawers. How it got there and why it was never completed has been a source of much lively debate. Regardless, she's now painted it (I sculpted it), and we're putting it up on eBay this week. This is the first we've offered since sometime early in 2006, I think, and I have no immediate plans to make more. So, if you're into Monster Doodle sculptures, you might want to have a look-see. I'll post a link to the auction as soon as it begins.

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Anyway, Platypus and Dodo are arguing over who gets to wear the spurs today, so I guess that means it's time for me to wrap this up. Here we go again.

Late last night...well, early this morning, actually, about 1:50 a.m., I was in the living room, getting ready to go to bed. I switched on a lamp, switched off a space heater, then turned so that I was facing the windows. And a fat little animal came trundling out of our yard, over the curb, and into the street, where it was plainly visible beneath the streetlights. At first, I thought it must be a cat. There are so many on this street, but then the details of its morphology began to sink into my sleepy brain, the way it moved, and I saw it was clearly not a cat. Nor was it a dog, of any sort. I have chosen to believe it must have been a raccoon, or perhaps even a posssum, which had somehow lost its tail. Because I will not believe that I saw a wombat crossing the street. I have enough to worry about without rogue wombats wandering about Atlanta in the dead of night. I only saw a wombat, which is not to say there was ever a wombat there to see. I shouted for Spooky immediately, as it crossed the street. She was in my office, doing something online, and by the time she made it to the window the womb...er, I mean the tailless raccoon or possum had vanished beneath a white SUV parked across the way. I think she thought I'd lost my mind good and proper, as I was babbling on and on about this strange-looking animal, the odd way it moved, its stocky build, the angle of its forelimbs relative to its body, and she dragged me out onto the front porch, but there was no sign of the beast anywhere. It was not a woodchuck. It was not a skunk. And it most certainly was not a frelling wombat. I said, "It looked like a tiny bear," and Spooky rolled her eyes and told me to go to bed before I hurt myself or she decided to do it for me. I said, "I choose to believe that I saw a raccoon or a possum, without a tail," and "Fine," she said and rolled her eyes. "Now go to bed." No, I was actually sober, and it helps not in the least that there was only about ten feet between me and it, or that the street light was quite bright. I do so dislike that sensation of having seen something I feel I wasn't meant to see, even if it is only a possum or raccoon. Now, I know what Charles Fort would have to say about nixars who say they've seen tailless possums or raccoons when they've plainly seen a wombat at 1:50 a.m. almost 10,0000 miles from where wombats have any business being. Charles Fort had much to say about displaced (or misplaced) things and animals and people. But, thankfully, I only have to answer to Spooky.

Anyway...

A good writing day yesterday. 694 words. Quite unexpectedly, I began a new story — "The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad #4") — which I suppose will be appearing in Sirenia Digest 11 late this month. The last few days, a ballad, "The Twa Sisters" (recorded by Loreena McKennitt as "The Bonny Swans"), has been going round and round in my head, wanting to be retold as a short story. I think this is it, though there's not a swan in sight. I am unaccustomed to having so many stories in my head at once. Right now, there's "The Ammonite Violin," and there's also Joey LaFaye, and there's also The Dinosaurs of Mars. I'm used to one story at a time, so my head is story stew. Anyway, expect "The Ammonite Violin" to be paired with grandmofhelsing's interview with Vince, and perhaps also with "Lafayette." A lot of you may not have read "Lafayette," and it's an old favourite from Tales of Pain and Wonder, which I've begun to think of as "Murder Ballad #2."

It pleases me that the drop-down menus on LJ use entry instead of post.

Byron came by last night, halfway through Heroes, and stayed for Dr. Who. He would not, however, stay for Battlestar Galactica. Because, said he, he has yet to "drink the purple Kool-Aid." Which is to say, Byron has managed to hold his grudge against the Sci Fi Channel much more faithfully than have I, and even now, four years later, he's not forgiven them for cancelling Farscape. Truth is, I haven't forgiven them, as the act in question was unforgivable. I just decided, reluctantly, I wasn't going to be stubborn and miss Dr. Who and Battlestar Galactica over so negligible a matter as mere principle or integrity. But Byron's better with such things than I am, inconvenient things like principle and integrity. Not quite so much better that he'll miss Dr. Who, but betterer enough that he refuses to watch Battlestar Galactica, which he knows he would love. I think he figures that Dr. Who is merely being shown on the SFC, while Battlestar Galactica was created by the SFC and took Farscape's place. But, anyway, I'm going to experiment with two-word TV reviews:

Heroes: still optimistic.

Dr. Who: brilliant, delightful.

Battlestar Galactica: wow, again.

Eh. Next week, I think I shall allow myself four words for each review. Also, I finally sat down and listened to the new disc from the Decemberists, The Crane Wife. Exquisite, says I. Quite different from Picaresque. There are fewer of the flights of fancy we saw in, say, "The Infanta" or "The Mariner's Revenge Song." It seems a more grounded and solemn album. There are murder ballads (there's that phrase again), in "The Landlord's Daughter" and "You'll Not Feel the Drowning." There's reference to the Civil War ("Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Again)") and the seige of Leningrad ("When the War Comes," and how can I not love an album with an ode to Nikolai Ivanovich Vavilov?). But there's still some whimsy, particularly in the "The Crane Wife," parts 1, 2, and 3, though it's a sad sort of whimsy. Only one song seems suited to the 20th Century, "The Perfect Crime #2," and then only just barely. I think my favourite track is "Come and See," though the last song, "Sons and Daughters," is awfully good, as well. Anyway, no sour notes here. Check it out. I do wish that Petra Haden were here, though.

Oh, yeah. After Battlestar Galactica, I finished Drakengard 2. Well, one of three possible endings. I won't risk any spoilers, only say that I loved the game, Manah's still hot, and it was quite difficult (I played it set on "challenge"), but I was somewhat dissatisfied with the ending. I'm not usually like that. I tend to treat the ends of stories like history. Which is to say, that's what happened, regardless of who dies or is betrayed or gets away unscathed. I figure, the author knows what is to come, what happens, the history of the story sheheit is telling, and the reader is merely watching. This is what I believe. Just so long as it rings true. But I did not find that the end of this game rang true. It seemed an eleventh-hour plot twist, put there to stun and take aback. I'm going to have a break from gaming, at least until Final Fantasy XII comes out at the end of the month, as there's so much writing and reading to get done. But I will come back to Drakengard 2 one day and find those other endings, hoping that one of them rings more true.

Okay. I got behind on e-mail yesterday and must catch up. And then, well, you know.