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The snow's still out there. Most of it. The sky is cloudy, and that's a relief. I feel sort of shitty for not having gone out in the snow when it was still fresh and powdery and clean.

Have you ordered The Drowning Girl: A Memoir? And Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart? No? Well, Herr Platypus says that if you do it today you can ride the pterosaurs for free when you get to heaven. And he's a monotreme of his word.


Yesterday, for Sirenia Digest #74, I began a new science-fiction short story, "The Diamond Friendly." Sort of crime noir circa 2056 (I think). I've been wanting to write this piece for about a month, and yesterday I said fuck it and got started. Oh, and I should say, up front, I wouldn't being doing the story without [ profile] corucia as a consultant. This one isn't art crime. This one's biocrime. Gene hacking. I'm still looking for the word that would fit the deed. Regardless, hard story. Slow going. I wrote only 1,007 words. Here's an excerpted paragraph (you're welcome):

They named him, in the grid-slicks, the wordless, spare-no-blows spill across the plex and subplex, they dubbed him Zoo. Of a certain, not the prime serial interspec alteration “artiste,” only the most elusive and, possibly, the most fecund (setting aside the likelihood that many re: at large, unapps skidding neath the radar, by hook and by crook). Zoo, he got hisself infamy and fame and phat martigen straightaway, possied up quick as light. Fuck All My Enemies, F/A/M/E. Ah, but. Mistake to think Zoo cognates along those straights. Or, maybe mistake, as we do not know Zoo’s motives entire. He claimed others, >.>, but maybe the ZOhBee lied it all before going ocultado, thant you. This agent, she don’t think the dick was in it for F/A/M/E, cult, spots, the gory smooth outs transmitted (which, note, did not come from the criminal, but all from the plex-subplex yellows. Each and all, god bless us everyone.) In his subtle not so subtle way, Zoo never advertised. He gave the chota fucks just enough to know he was out there, and catch me if you can. Like Monsieur Leather Apron of old. Tease, you are. Nuff to keep the peep on, Dear Boss, but nowhere near enough to tune up and apprehend. Part of me, she admires you for that. d(^_^d) Oh, and not being all about the mass-celeb chinaal after the fashion of so many others, and predecessors, and copeekats (we have cause to suspect he planted most of those, btw).***


A note to everyone who contributed to the Tale of the Ravens Kickstarter: Yes, we'd hoped to have finished it many, many months ago. But our schedule sort of exploded when so many thing started happening with Alabaster and The Drowning Girl: A Memoir and...other stuff. And suddenly I needed Spooky fucking constantly for all the things that a wealthier writer would have hired a personal assistant (Is secretary no longer PC? If so, that's a bloody shame.) to tend to for me. We're talking LOTS of annoying shit. Shit that just happens, and if I'm going to get any writing done, someone else has to attend to it. Anyway, this is my apology for monopolizing all her time. The project was conceived a year or so ago when I was far, far, far less busy. That said, we hope to have it finished by the end of March. Soon, the rewards to contributors will begin going out, pinkie promise. But they will be going out in stages, likely the postcards and prints first. But I just didn't want anyone to think we were slacking off.


My career seems, for the first time in a decade, to be sorting itself out. Now, I just have to keep the rest of my life in check. Or get a grip on it. Whatever. The diet's part of that. I've got to start exercising regularly, and sleeping more. I'm playing much too much SW:toR. MMORPGs will kill you, Bill Murray. More reading. Less time at this desk. More contact with human beings who are actually in the same room as me and aren't wielding lightsabers. This is what I have to do. Resolve, that's all it takes. Not that this winter's helping.

Last night, I did manage to read a chapter of Christopher McGowan's The Dragon Seekers, a very fine book on Victorian paleontology. I also read Rhoda Levine's Three Ladies by the Sea (illustrated by Edward Gorey), which seems like a metaphor for my entire life. Spooky made an excellent dinner of black-eyed peas and collards. But now, to sloppily paraphrase Laurie Anderson, the day stretches out before me like a big bald head. It's Sharkey's Day today. Sharkey wakes up and Sharkey says: There was this man... And there was this road...And if only I could remember these dreams...

Aunt Beast

***Copyright © 2012 by Caitlín R. Kiernan (Steal this and I will hunt you down, slice out your innards, and feed them to you before you die that slow painful death you've spent your sad, sick life trying to avoid.)
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Today is the 84th anniversary of the birth of Edward St. John Gorey.

I really am tired of writing about editing The Red Tree. Fortunately, today is the last day of it. Until the CEM, anyway. Yesterday, I wrote an editor's postscript, which is actually an excerpt from A Long Way To Morning, one of Sarah Crowe's novels. That came to 683 words. The scene occurred to me on Friday, while I was lying in bed, getting over the exhaustion thing. After the postscript was written, I finally got around to the part of this process I've been putting off as long as possible, compiling a complete list of all authors and works quoted in the text, and demonstrating for Penguin's legal sorts that all the quotes are either a) examples of fair use or b) quotations from works that are now in the public domain. Which meant juggling a PDF from Cornell University with a document from the lawyers at Penguin, and tracking down dozens of death dates and publication dates. Tedious to the nth degree.

Today, I finish writing the author's notes/acknowledgments, and we read chapters eight and nine over again. And that's that. Tomorrow, it goes back to Manhattan.

It's a cold grey day here in Providence. Spring seems like it's at least a year off. I've not left the house since Wednesday.

If you haven't already, please have a look at the current eBay auctions. And, for those who may not know, I will point out that my author's photo on the back of the dust jacket of The Five of Cups is from a nude photo shoot I did in 2003. That's called "extra incentive."

I will also remind you of the lottery to benefit the Shirley Jackson awards, which ends tomorrow. I have donated a signed set of the mass-market paperback editions of my novels, including Silk, Threshold, Low Red Moon, Murder of Angels, and Daughter of Hounds, and it only costs $1 to buy a chance to win them.

It occurs to me that I'm watching far too much mediocre television. Well, actually, as we no longer have cable, I'm watching too much mediocrity intended for television, which we're streaming via the internet. Last night began with Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, an okay episode, but they really can do a lot better. Then we watched the second episode of Joss Whedon's Dollhouse. And I still am not impressed. And that sucks, because I want to be impressed. At least I'm beginning to figure out some of the reasons the show is falling flat (for me, at least). To start with, Eliza Dushku simply isn't a good enough actress to pull off the role of Echo convincingly. Instead of seeing her as different people, transformed by the imprints, we see her as Eliza Dushku transformed by wardrobe. Last week, Librarian Eliza. This week, Action Eliza (with Kung-Fu grip!). Too bad the part of Echo didn't go to Amy Acker. And I loathe the character of Topher. He's like a lazy caricature of a Joss Whedon character, primarily Wash from Firefly and Serenity, but missing everything that really made Wash work. So, low marks for the second week. I find it hard to believe this series will survive even a whole season. Finally, we watched Jon Avnet's Righteous Kill, which was dull despite Robert De Niro and Al Pacino. Also, "50 Cent" needs to stick to whatever it is that people pay him to do that isn't acting.

At any rate, the coffee's getting cold. The platypus says wrap it up.
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Well, the good news is that I've not perished of this blasted bug, and that I finally seem to have pretty much recovered, aside from a persistent cough. The bad news is that I've been trying to begin a new piece for Sirenia Digest #27 since Wednesday, and have yet to make any notable progress. And the month is fading. Quickly. I like to think that there is some alternative universe where people have learned to live without deadlines.

The day is grey and rainy. Cold. Spooky says it's like winter in Portland (OR). I wouldn't know, as I have never been there, and I assume she would know, as she lived there from September 1996 to October 1999. Regardless, it's a decidedly unpleasant sort of day out there.

Not having gotten much of anything written the last few days, there really isn't a whole lot in the way of news. Mostly, I've been reading the Osborn biography, watching movies and Season Three of Angel, and enjoying food I've been unable to chew the last few months. Tuesday night we watched both Tony Gilroy's Micheal Clayton and Ridley Scott's American Gangster. I liked both quite a lot, but while Michael Clayton demonstrates a wonderful sort of quiet, cold desperation (and has Tilda Swinton), I loved American Gangster more. Russell Crowe gets me almost every time. But yeah, not much else. I haven't really left the house since the evening of the 15th.

The eBay auctions continue. My thanks to everyone who has bid or who plans on bidding.

Today, of course, is the 83rd anniversary of the birth of Edward St. John Gorey.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
Today is the 82nd anniversary of the birth of Edward St. John Gorey. Some folks leave this damned world much, much too young.


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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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