Caitlín R. Kiernan

It's easy to imagine some of the questions that scholars* might want to ask when they look back on the story of our times. When did the last ice sheets melt away? At what point did the oceans finish acidifying? How rapidly were national boundaries reshuffled in response to sea-level rise? Some of these questions will be answered by written documents, but not necessarily as many as we might think.

Much of today's recorded history will eventually be lost simply because so many of its documents are electronic. The devices and codes that create and decipher them change so often in the interest of big business that they become useless within decades or less. Not to mention centuries. The effects of this are already apparent in my own home. I'm still saving some old-fashioned floppy disks that used to feed data into my TRS-80 computer back in the 1980s even though I'll never be able to read them again.

from Deep Future: The Next 100,000 Years of Life on Earth by Curt Stager

* Assuming there are any remaining.

In a somewhat dark place this morning. It's cloudy and cold and windy, the Outside reflecting my internal weather, or, to be more precise (and less egocentric), my mood reflecting the dismal weather Outside my office window.

Yesterday was one of the frustrating sorts of writing days. I spent over an hour searching for a title. I read through T. S. Eliot's "Four Quartets" for about the hundred billionth time. I found a very appropriate epigraph in an Oscar Wilde essay, and then I realized the vignette's title was "At the Reef." I read long passages of Joseph Campbell, Jung, and a book on Byron and Romanticism. It was after four p.m. before I finally started writing, and I got only 502 words done. Today, I have to hope I wrote well yesterday. My plan had been to finish this piece today (yes, two vignettes in four days), but now I see it's time to revise the plan. I'll push forward with "On the Reef" today, finish a long interview tomorrow, then finish "On the Reef" on Saturday, which will take care of most of Sirenia Digest #59. Maybe take Sunday off. Then, next week, try to get back to The Drowning Girl, as the novel has sat neglected since August (and even with the second deadline extension, it's expected in March). But November will be spent on a short story and the contents of Sirenia Digest #59.

The truth is, if I had about a hundred more subscribers to Sirenia Digest, and believed that the subscriber base was reasonably stable, I'd stop trying to write novels. I'd write my vignettes and short stories and maybe the occasional novella, and that would be just fine.

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For a sobering look at what's being done to the planet, have a look at the NASA/JPL/Cal Tech Climate Time Machine. Just don't tell the teabaggers. They're pretty sure all this talk of global warming is really a communist/Islamic plot to deprive them of Wal-Mart and the NFL.

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I've grown very accustomed, thanks to the Lamictal...a wondrous, merciful drug I wished I'd had twenty years ago...to not having to cope with Angry Caitlín. But, even now there are rare days, like today, when she finds her way out into the world.

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Thanks to everyone who's voted in the podcast poll (if you haven't, please do). Speaking to those who have expressed concerns that, were I to do this, I would only be adding one more thing to a plate that is far too full, that it would give me yet another deadline to worry over, here's my reply. No, it won't. For one, as it's free, I'd plan it once a month, but if I miss a month, whatever. No big deal. For another, my end of the thing would consist of me sitting at my desk reading a vignette or short story into the tiny little microphone (DO NOT DARE SAY "MIC" WHEN YOU MEAN "MIKE," thank you), and then emailing it to the person who would a) turn the sound file into something that could be downloaded and b) post it to be downloaded. So, each reading would require about an hour of my time. As for copyright issues, the audio files would be released under Creative Commons, though I would reserve all other rights on the stories. So, that's not an issue, either.

The only real concern is the one I've already stated, my own dislike of my voice. And that's something only I can overcome (or not).

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Too much time has been going to MMORPGs lately. But...how is that any worse than watching television or hanging out in bars or playing endless rounds of Scrabble? True, I ought to be spending all that time reading. I know that. But, at the end of the day, I'm usually too tired from writing to read.

Anyway, still having a lot of fun with WoW, and eagerly awaiting the Cataclysm expansion. But most of my gaming time the last couple of weeks has gone into City of Heroes and Villains. It's kind of funny, because I've never cared for superhero comics. Last night, though, I pretty much resolved to stop playing CoX as a game, and just go to it for rp. The game's engine is just too clunky and the game architecture too cryptic and tedious. Plus, my 2007 iMac's not quite up to Cox and I get serious latency issues. Load screens take for fucking ever. And I've never played a game with so many load screens. Add to this the impossibility of soloing (i.e., enforced socialization), and also my being blind in one eye, which makes it pretty much impossible for me to track the insane rate of combat in the missions, and I'd just rather stick with WoW as for as actual gaming goes. I've leveled my villain to 25, but can't seem to find any interest in leveling her farther. So, I'll rp in CoX, which is really what I need from it anyway, because I can't get good rp anywhere else (though, I very much look forward to the release of CCP Games' World of Darkness MMORPG, which has the potential to be exactly what I've been looking for since, well, forever).

Meanwhile, Kathryn's been playing a lot of Middle Earth Online. While I still think the avatars look like action figures circa 1976, she's enjoying it a great deal. And, I will admit, the environments are pretty amazing (just don't get me started on the horses). I geeked out over seeing the Party Tree in Hobbiton. From what I can see, Middle Earth Online takes it's basic design from WoW, but I am disposed to look upon it a bit more kindly now, if only because Spooky's enjoying it so much.

And the Platypus is cutting me off....

Final Stages of the Complete Collapse of the Antarctic's Wilkins Ice Shelf.

Most of yesterday was spent sitting here, not writing, simply trying to find the piece I need to have finished a week ago for Sirenia Digest #40. I have to find it today. I also looked over the CEM for The Red Tree with Spooky, and the copy-editors' marks are light, indeed, just as Anne (my editor) said. Which is a huge relief, time constraints and exhaustion being what they are.

I'm also pleased to see that there have already been two bids on the long-lost Monster Doodle sculpture.

Late yesterday afternoon, or early yesterday evening...whichever...Spooky pried me away from the computer, where I was not writing, where my fingers were not moving across the keyboard, where the MS Word "page" was still fucking blank, and took me to Warwick to see Rob Letterman and Conrad Vernon's Monsters vs. Aliens. It was actually a lot of fun, despite what Roger Ebert says. Of course, we were smart and avoided the 3D nonsense. I thought it was big, goofy fun. Insectosaurus made me smile, as did Stephen Colbert's President Hathaway.

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Turns out, after a lot of complaints, Magnolia Entertainment/Magnet are releasing a second version of Låt den rätte komma in, with the theatrical-release English subtitles restored. But, they refuse to offer exchanges to those of us who bought the butchered version of the DVD.

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I have very mixed feelings about this whole Earth Hour thing. Yes, Spooky and I will be shutting off the lights (and other electrical appliances) between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. But I can't help but feel that this whole affair is little more than an empty gesture. If governments began requiring nightly blackouts, especially as regards nonessential lighting, it would be a very small step in the right direction, and we might begin to see a difference. Mostly, this is the sort of thing that strikes me as belonging in the "too little, too late" bin, no matter how many warm fuzzies it might inspire, or how many cramping consciences it might alleviate.

Anyway, time to think wicked thoughts...in the most artistic manner possible, of course.

The snow arrived yesterday afternoon about 2:30 p.m. (CaST). And it's still snowing, though big clumps now, that drift lazily about before settling on rooftops and power lines and sidewalks. Very different from the tiny crystals that started this storm, and that fell for at least twelve hours non-stop. I've not seen so much snow since the winters of '92 and '93, when freak winter storms pounded Birmingham, Alabama. And I'm not sure we got this much then. It just did more damage, as Birmingham was ill-equipped for such weather. It is so amazingly white outside. The sky is lying on the rooftops, which is oddly comforting. I don't know how much snow has fallen on Federal Hill, but I hear some parts of Rhode Island got as much as twelve inches. It will be a white Solstice this year.

I took photographs from the office window. They're larger than usual, because I was determined to show icicles.

No writing again yesterday. And that has to stop today or tomorrow. But the anticipation of the coming storm, and then the snow itself. How could I write through that? This will all become old hat to me soon enough. I want to keep these sights and sensations novel and delightful as long as I can. Though, there's an unexpected anxiety, too, a sort of smothering that seems to lurk at the edges of everything. I'm not claustrophobic, but I begin to guess that it's what eventually turns to "cabin fever." Everything is so white, and so close.

Yesterday, thanks to Ellen Datlow, I found out about Larry Fessenden's The Last Winter (2006). I'd missed this film, though I'm a great fan of two of Fessenden's earlier films, Habit (1996) and Wendigo (2001). I was less impressed by his earlier No Telling (1991), but we shouldn't be judged by our eary efforts. I have this ever increasing fear of being judged by Silk, and even Threshold, when my writing has matured so much since then that you'd hardly think my recent stories and Daughter of Hounds and The Red Tree were written by the same person who wrote those novels. I'm digressing, just like Sarah Crowe (you'll see, eventually). Anyway, The Last Winter is quite good. Here and there, the acting wobbles a bit (or the direction; you can never know which), and I sort of wish that we'd not seen so much of "the monsters" at the end. But they are damned creepy monsters. A great deal of this story was clearly inspired by Algernon Blackwood's "The Wendigo," turned towards the subject of global warming. The film is marvelously atmospheric, creating a mood of isolation and closeness and expectation that becomes almost unbearable at times. You can stream it from Netflix for free, so have a look. Though, maybe it's best not watched on a snowy day.

Later, we watched the first two episodes of Doctor Who: Genesis of the Daleks (1974), and then read more of The Historian. There was insomnia still later, inspired in part, I think, by the snow. It was sometime after 6 ayem and two Ambien before I managed to get to sleep.

At twilight yesterday we walked in the snow. Dexter Training Ground had been transformed into the interior of a snow globe. There was absolutely no distinction between sky and ground. The towers of the Armory were grey silhouettes against a deeper grey. There were ecstatic dogs, bounding about their people. By then, the snow was already quite deep, and already people were out shoveling. There was a hush laid over everything. No sound seemed to travel more than a few feet, excepting those sounds that seem to reach us, muffled, from very far away. It was beautiful. Spooky looked positively Cro-Magnon as her dreads collected snow.

This morning, I had my first cup of coffee in the front parlour, and watched a pair of seagulls soaring above the street. They were almost lost to view, or simply lost, against the alabaster sky.

Please take a peek at the current eBay auctions. It's heartening to see that Letter V of Frog Toes and Tentacles already has a bid. Thank you. New items will be added today or tomorrow.

Okay. Oh, I do apologize for spending part of yesterday butchering the French language via my Facebook account. Today, i think I'll butcher German. The photos are behind the cut:

( December 20, 2008 )

Yesterday, after I finally managed to deal with the great hillocks of email that had accumulated during the trip from Atlanta to Providence, and having learned that our furniture would not be delivered until this afternoon, we reluctantly got back into the car and headed west out of Providence. Oh, but before I tell that part, I should say these other things.

First, Sirenia Digest #30.1 has now gone out to subscribers. It differs in no significant way from #30, except that it includes Vince's illustration for "Rappaccini's Dragon," which I neglected to include in the first version of May's issue. It's the first time an artist has reproduced one of Albert Perrault's dreadful paintings, though they have figured — more or less prominently — in at least four of my stories, beginning, I believe, with "The Road of Pins." Also, please have a look at kambriel's Unexpected Moving Sale. You will find many a wonderful notion, have no doubt. My thanks to Greg Fox for the photos he sent me yesterday of Charles Fort's grave at Albany Rural Cemetery in Menands, New York. Another place I have to visit very, very soon. Also, there's been quite a positive review of Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy in Locus. It's far too long for me to quote in its entirety, but has this to say about "The Steamdancer (1896)," my contribution to the anthology:

...an effective steampunk sketch of a crippled woman who obtains new life from her artificial eye and limbs, ugliness made beauty for many a kinkily lustful eye...

Okay. Now back to the events of yesterday. Though the weather was cold, windy, and wet, I needed to have my first firsthand look at the Moosup Valley/Barbs Hill Road area, south of Foster, in western Rhode Island, the area that is the setting for The Red Tree. So, we headed west through North Scituate, turning onto 102 at Chopmist, which we followed south to Plainfield Pike, which, in turn, took us to Moosup Valley Road. Unfortunately, the old Tyler Library, which I'd wanted to have a better look at, is closed on Thursdays. Instead, we stopped to have a look at the pond behind the cemetery across the street from the library, as it will be one of the models for the novel's fictional "Ramswool Pond." At once, we were astounded at a truly amazing amount of scat littering the soggy, sandy ground. I guessed we were seeing raccoon droppings, but the only tracks I could locate were those of a very large species of anseriformid bird. As we marveled at the acres of poo, two Canadian geese (Branta canadensis) flew by overhead. Clearly, a very large flock of geese had stopped at the pond shortly before our arrival. We walked about the place for a bit, noting plants, birds, a beaver-notched tree, and what we could see of the local geology. But the great quantities of goose scat were, to say the least, off-putting, and we soon left. We did spot a goldfinch (Carduelis tristis), happily bathing in the stream flowing from the pond into the marshes at the edge of the Moosup River. Inspired by Edward Gorey's The Deranged Cousins; or Whatever., we christened the pond "The Goose's Restroom," then got back into the car and headed south along Barbs Hill Road. In the summer, the country in this part of the state seems truly wild, the fern-fringed macadam road vaulted by an incredibly green and shadowy forest of second-growth pines, maples, and oaks. There were skunk cabbages, wild grapes, green briers, honeysuckle, daisy fleabane, cowslip — I didn't keep a list of all the flora. Maybe next trip. We saw several farmhouses along the road, some dating back to the 18th Century. There was a small herd of goats, and a couple of collies. We crossed the Moosup River again near where it empties into Briggs Pond, pausing there on the bridge for a bit.

The long, curving road ends at Rice City and Vaughn Hollow, and we headed east again, to visit Spooky's mother at her parents' farm near the University of Rhode Island (where her father is a professor and department head; he's currently doing work in some faraway place I cannot now recall). It was the first time we'd had a chance to stop by her parent's place since we arrived. We played with Spider (a truly enormous cat), looked through photographs of Spooky's great-grandmother and grandmother (her mom's engaged in an elaborate geneological project involving the letters of Margaret Russell —— née, Winslow —— Spooky's great-grandmother, who left Appleton, WI, and moved away to the wilds of South Dakota in the first decade of the 20th Century). We got fresh eggs and a number of other things that we needed (all our pots and pans being on a moving truck somewhere*), then headed back to Providence. I think we got home about 7 pm. Here are some photos, behind the cut:

( Moosup Valley and Barbs Hill )

My thanks for the amazing number of comments yesterday. There were even MySpace comments, which are rare, in my experience. Most everyone who commented was of the opinion that I shouldn't censor myself for fear of alienating readers, though many also understood my fears and thought them justified. At any rate, I'm thinking the whole matter over, and, in the meanwhile, will say that I am very relieved that Hillary Clinton has finally bowed out of the race for the Democratic nomination. Also, I'll point you towards this article on the impending demise of the SUV, Hummer, and other conspicuously obscene gas-guzzlers, as sales plummet and auto manufacturers move towards smaller, fuel-efficient vehicles. Also, note that "Republicans have blocked efforts to bring a global warming bill up for a final Senate vote after a bitter debate over its economic costs and whether it would push gasoline prices higher." The proposed bill "...would cap carbon dioxide coming from power plants and factories with a target of cutting greenhouse gas emissions by 71 percent by mid-century."** On the one hand, these bastards are shortsighted idiots, worrying about gas prices while the planet bakes and melts and sea levels rise. And on the other, even if the bill were to be passed and enforced, given how far global warming has already advanced, and all the other nations that won't enact such legislation, the U.S. lowering emissions to 71% of present levels by 2050 would be much too little, much too late. By then...well, you'll see, if you should live so long. Meanwhile, please check out 350.org.

* Our moving coordinator at United Van Lines called while I was typing this, and we're expecting our belongings to arrive between 4-5 pm this evening.
** Quotations from the Associated Press.

My thanks to Barry Graham (the_urban_monk) for linking to Bill McKibben's story in The Nation reporting the results of a publication on greenhouse gases by Dr. Jim Hansen (NASA) and others, which appeared in Science a few weeks ago. This is a chilling, no-bullshit article, and it needs to be read by everyone living on this planet. Because, as McKibben states again and again, we have reached the point where the luxury of time has all but passed, and, in Dr. Hansen's words, "if humanity wishes to preserve a planet similar to that on which civilization developed and to which life on earth is adapted, paleoclimate evidence and ongoing climate change suggest that CO2 will need to be reduced from its current 385 ppm to at most 350 ppm." Anyway, please, take a few minutes and read the article. I am not an optimist, and, personally, I think we've passed the point where turning this great industrial beast back from the brink and averting the cataclysm is no longer very likely. But, I'm also wrong a lot. And this is the thing I'd most like to be wrong about, in my whole entire life.

Also, check out 350.org.

Also, speaking of cataclysm, there's some interesting new evidence surrounding the K/T impact event (you know, the "Fifth Extinction," the one that got the non-avian dinosaurs et al.). Specifically, it concerns the discovery of tiny carbon cenospheres in rocks dating from the time of the impact event.

A very groggy sort of morning, though I did manage to get to bed not long after two ayem.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,218 words on the untitled prologue for Joey Lafaye, and it seems to be going well. Spooky likes it. Right now, her opinion is all I have to go on, that and my own instincts. The prologue actually happens shortly after Chapter One, and I'm trying to figure out how to make that clearer. I also made more beanie platypi (I'm calling them beanie, because "ricey" just sounds dumb). So, yes, lots of work yesterday, and working almost always helps. The auctions will begin sometime today.

I also finished reading Jim Ottaviani and Big Time Attic's Bone Sharps, Cowboys, and Thunder Lizards: A Tale of Edward Drinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marsh and the Gilded Age of Paleontology (G.T. Labs, 2005). Quite nice, all in all. I have a long-standing fascination with the "bone war" that waged between Cope and Marsh, and like me, Ottaviani's somewhat fictionalized account comes down more firmly on the side of Cope. I think it's truly very difficult to tell the story of that rivalry and not cast Cope as the "hero" and Marsh as "villian." This is, of course, something of an oversimplification, but there's only so much anyone can do in a 150 pp. graphic novel. Using Charles R. Knight as the tale's fulcrum was an interesting approach. Plus, supporting roles and cameos by the likes of P.T. Barnum, Buffalo Bill Cody, Alexander Graham Bell, and Ulysses S. Grant. It makes a nice introduction to an odd and shameful chapter of American paleontology. I was especially pleased with a bit near the end, where Marsh, at his home in New Haven, is entertaining Chief Red Cloud, and the Sioux leader makes the point that such stories as myths and history are about men, not science.

Not much else really. We had a good walk yesterday. I'm feeling less stiff, but tire far too easily. The weather here continues to be more like May than December. There were a few clouds yesterday, and the sky spat drizzle for about five minutes. I cannot imagine anything, at this point, that's going to save Atlanta from a disastrous water shortage. Spooky made a pot of chili. I spent too much time in Second Life. That sort of an evening (and my thanks to blu_muse for filling Void full of lead, then taking her to the hospital).

I wanted to write something else this morning, something about how much easier it is for Americans to sympathize with the plight of American screenwriters (because, well, you know, movies make money), as compared to the plight of working American novelists, and how this relates to my generally unfortunate experiences the last two years writing the Beowulf novelization. As in, you think screenwriters have it bad, you ought to hear how the other half lives (but yes, I do fully support the current WGA strike). But I need coffee, and I'm just not up to it right now. Maybe later, like tomorrow. Or next week.

I am, in fact, fairly delighted that the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change and Al Gore (the true 43rd American President) will share the Nobel Peace Prize "for their efforts to build up and disseminate greater knowledge about man-made climate change, and to lay the foundations for the measures that are needed to counteract such change." I haven't much hope, that's a fact, but it's another tiny step in the right direction.

A magnificently frustrating day yesterday. I sat and stared at the screen all day long, trying to find the next story for Sirenia Digest #23, but to no avail. Which should come as no surprise to me, considering I only finished "The Madam of the Narrow Houses" on Thursday. There is a great gulf between what I need to do and what I expect from myself as a writer, on the one hand, and what I can actually manage, on the other. But knowing that really doesn't make me feel any better about the situation. Still, not an entirely unproductive day. I washed my hair. I downloaded the new Radiohead album (superb). I sent a Swedish sf and fantasy magazine a photo for a story they're doing on my work. (which I had no idea was being done until they asked for the photo). I talked to Del Howison at Dark Delicacies in LA, because I still have not done my list for The Horror Book of Lists and wanted to know if anyone had done anything like "Top Ten 'Lovecraftian' Films Not Based (or Only Loosely Based) on Works by H.P. Lovecraft" (they haven't, so I shall). But that was about it.

Byron came by at 6:30, and we had dinner at the Vortex (because Grandma Luke's is doing some silly dinner theatre thing), then watched Little Britain and Kill Bill Vol. 1. Byron is the fine thread that prevents me from being able to declare myself a genuine recluse. Oh, and he brought over the soundtrack to Across the Universe.

So, today I will try — again — to come up with the next new story, and I will read some of Strange and Secret Peoples: Fairies and Victorian Consciousness, and I will make my list of the "Top Ten 'Lovecraftian' Films Not Based (or Only Loosely Based) on Works by H.P. Lovecraft." And we shall see.

And I'm using my Tenth Doctor icon this morning, even though there was no new Doctor Who last night, just because.

The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what's real and what is not
It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden

The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden

(Bob Dylan, "Gates of Eden")

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Day Six of the Mordorian Death March. And I suspect my fears that I am being pursued by this setsuled fiend are not unjustified. Yesterday, my eyes weary from a lack of sleep and my mind filled with the terror of revision and deadlines and with the names of ancient gods and kings, I reached the banks of the Gurthrant, a full day behind schedule. But instead of continuing north to the Thaur Road, I turned west again, approaching the shadow-haunted ruin of Thaurband. I believe scouts may be waiting for me on the road, and hope that by this detour I might lose my pursuers. By early afternoon, I stood just outside what remains of the guard posts outer walls. Since the War and Sauron's defeat, it has become little more than an orc brothel and sty. But there are still ships of men making port here from as far away as Lilithlad. A strange and unsettling sight, watching the grim traffic between men and goblins that goes on in this place, and I almost lost my nerve. But finally, presenting myself as a merchant from Near Harad, I found a captain willing to take me across the Núrnen as far as Caran, from whence I shall then follow the course of the Caranduin northwards, making for the Mitrhram Spur below dread Seregost. But I have been told that there are yet Uruks roaming these fell regions, and I have little hope now that I will ever escape this accursed land to see once more the eyes of my fair Inwë Isilrá. This was always a fool's errand, and but for the need of gold I would have forsaken it weeks ago. With this man setsuled on my heels, what little hope I might have haboured fades quickly.

Or to speak more plainly, yesterday I spent about seven hours on the Anglo-Saxon-Norse-Icelandic-Old English glossary. Three before the movie, then four more after dinner. I finished at 12:45 a.m., and am pleased to say I have a good draft. It only needs a little revision. 2,245 words, for those who like it put that way. Today will likely be wasted in a waiting game, waiting for phone calls and the outcome of phone calls. Stranded on the listing deck of this rotten ship, as it were. I wonder if this black and stinking sea has been forsaken by even Ulmo of the Vala?

I am told I can buy a horse at Caran. We shall see.

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I see people posting notorious quotes from the poisoned pen of the late Mr. Falwell. Here's my contribution, something he said about the 9/11 terrorist attacks:

The abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked. And when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad. I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say "you helped this happen."

Also, my thanks to asanityassassin for pointing out this Volatire quote: To the living, one owes respect. To the dead, one owes only truth. Though, for my part, I would say one owes only truth to the living and the dead. One owes only truth, or one owes nothing at all.

Meanwhile, a California-Sized Area of Ice Melts in Antarctica.

Of course, Mr. Falwell had this to say about global warming: The whole global warming thing is created to destroy America's free enterprise system and our economic stability.

— and —

I believe that global warming is a myth. And so, therefore, I have no conscience problems at all and I'm going to buy a Suburban next time.

I wonder exactly how they will ever manage the influx of people wishing to piddle and/or dance on this man's grave?