Caitlín R. Kiernan

Got to admit, I'm more than a little disappointed in how my first New England Hallowe'en is shaping up. No parties. No costumes. No pumpkin patch. Given we're on the second floor, there won't even be trick-or-treaters. My schedule right now didn't even allow me to take today off, which is just...wrong. So, I suppose that Spooky and I will do something together tonight, watch some scary movies, eat something sweet, mark the turning of the wheel and the beginning of a new year, and whatnot. But, yeah, disappointed. Maybe next year.

Blah.

Yesterday, I did 1,208 words on "Metamorphosis C." I thought this story would have sort of a Cronenberg feel, and, instead, so far, it's entirely different. Filled with a sort of cold, quiet menace. A sort of resignation. More Stanislaw Lem, by way of William Gibson, maybe.

Last night, after a takeaway dinner of hot and sour soup, egg drop soup, and steamed dumplings, we watched Kenneth Branagh's recent production of As You Like It (2006). It was nice, set in 19th Century Japan, and I have a weakness for anachronistic takes on Shakespeare. Later, there was WoW, of course. Voimakas, my Draenei hunter, and Jalokivi, Spooky's Draenei shaman. But for some reason, we took a quest from the Stonetalon Mountains that meant running, running, running south, all the way through the Barrens, into the Thousand Needles, and finally to the eastern border of Feralas. I think we spent an hour and a half simply running. Still, Voimakas made Lvl 29. And got a better sword off a dead harpy. So it wasn't all slog.

I got to bed about 2:30 ayem, and slept an amazing eight and a half hours (this is my brain, telling me it's exhausted).

If you haven't already, please, please, please preorder A is for Alien. I'm quite sure this will be one of my best books to date. Which is to say, I am especially proud of it.

Now...words.

The trick-or-treaters were sort of a bust this year, which means we're stuck with loads of tooth-rottingly sweet, mass-produced, injection-molded high-fructose corn syrup. We get fewer trick-or-treaters every year. Don't know if it's the pernicious influence of evangelical Xtianity or just lazy kids (or lazy parents), but it's a tad disheartening. Me and Byron and Spooky sat on the front porch last night, drinking pumpkin ale, and when all was said and done, we'd aided in the dental undoing of maybe a dozen kiddos. We were prepared for maybe ten times that number. Spoot.

The Second Life Samhain ceremony, on the other hand, went off rather well. It was strange, to say the least, conducting a sabat in a virtual environment. I'm not sure what William Gibson would have to say about it. At some point, I said something to Byron about the irony of practicing a Nature religion in cyberspace, and he unhelpfully pointed out that, in the end, all the materials that make up a computer — from silicon to various plastics to copper and so forth — that it was all just "dirt and rocks." On the one hand, I could not disagree with the reductionist logic, but on the other... Well, regardless, thanks to those who came. In the end, I opted to do the ritual semi-skyclad, with a very fine black cloak, but nothing at all underneath. And no trees had to perish for our enormous bonfire (as long as you don't consider all the trees destroyed directly or indirectly to produce information tech and computers and Second Life and so forth). There was something genuinely magickal about the thing, though, and I have now brought Wicca to New Babbage. It went so well I suspect I will also be conducting a Yule ceremony behind the Abney Park Laboratory. Oh, and on November 5th, you can bet there will be another bonfire at Abney Park, as there is an effigy of President Asshole which must be roasted ever so slowly.

Here in RL, we set out apples and cakes (and a little dry cat food) and ale on our altar.

Entries may be spotty until Saturday or Sunday as our two house guests are incoming — Jada from Little Rock and Garland from Birmingham. I will be very pleased to see old friends, but I am so totally not ready for house guests. And I need to wash my hair, and help Spooky straighten up the place a bit more, so I suppose I should go. Jada will be here at three, and I still have eye boogers. But the coffee has just arrived, and the platypus doesn't look too grumpy, so there's hope.

Here it is already Halloween the first once again. And I think that I shall celebrate by having a Very Good Day, even though I had to take two Ambien last night to jumpstart sleep, and then there were nightmares I cannot quite forget, and I only slept six and a half hours, and am still not truly awake.

Yesterday, I proofed all of Sirenia Digest #22 again, then did the layout, and by the time I sent the file away to thingunderthest to be PDFed, it must have been six o'clock in the pee-em. I am very pleased with this issue, and I hope others are as well. Comments welcome, of course. Don't be shy. The platypus is a curious being. So am I. Oh, and if you are a subscriber and have not yet received your copy of #22, just email Spooky at crk_books(at)yahoo(dot)com and she'll make it right.

Also, I might draw your attention to Last Drink Bird Head, edited by Jeff and Ann Vandermeer, to be released late in 2008. I did a piece for it (linking "The Road of Pins" and "Houses Under the Sea"), as did many other people, including Michael Bishop, Gene Wolfe, Tanith Lee, Peter Straub, Stephen R. Donaldson, Michael Swanwick, Henry Kaiser, Bruce Holland Rogers, Conrad Williams, Daniel Abraham, Ellen Kushner, Holly Phillips, Jay Lake, K.J. Bishop, Jon Courtney Grimwood, Sonya Taaffe, Tim Pratt, Sarah Monette, Rikki Ducornet, Nick Mamatas, Nicholas Royle, Marly Youmans, Liz Williams, Brian Evenson, Steve Aylett, Cat Rambo, and Richard Butner. All proceeds will go to a literacy charity, I believe. I'll keep you posted.

Today, it's back to "Salammbô Redux" and South County, Rhode Island.

We had a good walk yesterday, around the eastern end of Freedom Park. I had some exceptionally good Second Life, and Spooky put the finishing touches on Ogdred Weary House in New Babbage. I stopped by long enough to officially change the name of that plot of land from "Abney Park Blockhouse Laboratory" to "Ogdred Weary House." Later, we ate oatmeal cookies with raisins, and Spooky read aloud another chapter of Dune.

By the way, if you have not yet read "The Ape's Wife" in Clarkesworld Magazine #12, here's the link. And I'll remind you again that Beowulf is now officially in bookshops. The first printing on this book was truly gigantic, so I'm glad to see it selling well.

Okay. I think that's all for now. Must make words.

I think this may be a Day of More Than One Entry. It feels that way.

A good Samhain and a good Halloween. But we had a lot less trick-or-treaters than last year, which was kind of annoying, as last year we had too many trick-or-treaters and almost not enough candy, so this year Spooky stocked up on the candy, and Hannah brought even more, and now we have a great surplus of confections that neither I nor Spooky can be trusted not to consume. Argh. Damned brats! Maybe we'll take it to over the Junkman's Daughter or A Capella Books. Those poor people need candy much worse than we. Which is to say (glancing at my belly), I need it not at all.

We spent much of the day decorating the porch and carving pumpkins and getting dressed and made up and other such endeavors as are appropriate to the day. I did the elf thing again. I think a definite character is beginning to emerge from my flirtations with elfinesss. At some point last night, a rather drunken woman, dressed as a "soccer mom" and ushering a herd of children about, made a show of trying to remember the name of the elf she thought I was supposed to be — "You know, from that movie." In her state, she could not recall The Lord of the Rings, much less the names of elves. Finally, I let her off the hook, because she was really becoming annoying, and said, "Arwen Evenstar." And she was delighted she'd guessed correctly, even though she hadn't technically guessed anything. Then I turned to Jim and said, "But I'm not Arwen Undómiel. I'm the bitch who took the one ring when Galadriel wouldn't. And there will be Wal-Marts in Gondor!" It was that sort of evening. Spooky had let her horns grow all week. She usually keeps them filed down to nubs. She tried to convince Jim and Hanah and Byron that she was only in "costume" as a demon of some sort, but we all know better.

After the trick-or-treaters died off to a trickle, we went inside for Vincent Price on TCM. What a glorious, campy mess is Roger Corman's Masque of the Red Death (1964). Later, when our company had taken their leave, I ate leftover candy and watched The Fall of the House of Usher (1960), probably my favorite Vincent Price film ever, and the end of a Blue Man Group concert on Georgia Public Television. The latter would have been better had not some utterly horrid woman kept interrupting to ask for pledges. Someone out there needs to show these botox- and plastic-surgery addicted fiends a photograph of a Scarran and ask if the similarity is intentional. Oh, and there was some Samhainy stuff after that, and then bed, and I tried to read but fell asleep almost immediately.

Thanks to Christa (faustfatale) for pointing me towards Emerson LaSalle's wonderful, wonderful rant about Amazon.com "reviews" and "reviewers," which you can read here. I was especially pleased with his proposal for the model Amazon.com "review":

"Thanks. You worked hard to write a book. I'm impressed. I could never do that in a million years because I'm still trying to understand the difference between imply and infer."

Indeed.

So, anyway, as mentioned earlier, yesterday was the tenth anniversary of the first performance of Death's Little Sister. A whole damn decade. How frelled is that? It seems entirely impossible that so much time has passed and so much has transpired since that freezing night in Athens, Georgia. There were two other bands playing Galaxy 500 that evening, La Guano and Static Lounge, and I cannot remember even the first thing about either of them. I can't even recall the order in which we played. But I was somewhat drunk and sleep deprived and pretty sure we'd get booed offstage. We brought jack-o'-lanterns, and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was projected onto the wall behind us while we played. Our asshole drummer tried to set the stage on fire (he skipped out on us right after the show and was never seen again). After we played, I got about an hour's sleep before driving to Atlanta and flying to Chicago for the '96 World Fantasy Convention. Those were the days. Anyway, here's a gothedy band photo to commemorate the date (behind the cut; the asshole drummer is not in the photo), courtesy Matthew C. Grasse (wherever you are):

( A long time ago... )

Okay. Time to write. I'll post a few photos from last night sometime later today, because stsisyphus was promised pix of me with pointy ears. Meanwhile, any feedback re: Sirenia Digest 11 is, of course, welcomed. Oooh. My ears are still messy from the metamorphosis. Yuck.

The headache that dogged me all damned day and night yesterday has now faded to a faint twinge somewhere behind my right eye. Still, it was a good Halloween, much better than last year, even if I didn't get any writing done yesterday. The headache, the distractions of Halloween, blame those things. I took care of some e-mail and gave up trying to work about 2:30 p.m. (I think — it's kind of a blur) and took a hot bath. That helped a little. So did the Dresden Dolls and the Decemberists, though the latter got me to thinking about pirates and ambergris again. We had a fair number of trick-or-treaters last night and managed to unload all the candy Spooky had stocked up on. We'd spent a couple of hours pulling our costumes together, and then we sat in the cold on the front steps surrounded by all our jack-o'-lanterns. I got a very good idea for a children's book (not YA, but an actual children's book), which I shall try to write this month, I think. Our costumes were far and away more imaginative than almost all the trick-or-treaters, which was a little disappointing. Kids these days. Sheesh. One teen idiot showed up in a baseball cap adorned with breasts, which I assume was meant to be his costume. I told Spooky that next year, that sort gets celery stalks instead of candy. Spooky looked great in her mask by E. L. Downey (thanks Robin!). This morning, I have some mild soreness from the hasty removal of latex prosthetics that I should have been loosened with spirit-gum remover, instead of just ripping them off because I was too tired to be bothered. But still. A good Halloween.

Now, of course, we stand on the threshold of the dread "Holiday Season." Shudder.

Thanks to Dwayne Wood, I now know the origin of the werewolf illustration I posted in an entry back on 16 August. Les Lupins by Maurice Sands, ca. 1858. Dwayne also reminded me that Montague Summers mentioned the wolves at the wall thing in The Werewolf, which I confess I've not read in ages. Summers writes, "In Normandy tradition tells of certain fantastic beings known as lupins or lubins. They pass the night chattering together and twattling in an unknown tongue. They take their stand by the walls of country cemeteries, and howl dismally at the moon." So, there you go.

Congratulations to Jessica Langer, who was the first person to e-mail me about that free copy of The Dry Salvages yesterday. And thanks again to Roel for making such a generous offer.

While looking for something the other day, I came across this bit from my my blog (back before I expanded to LJ):

At dinner the other night, a well-meaning friend made a comment, the upshot of which is that, as a moderately successful writer, one who supports herself solely by her writing, I have a very easy life. I think Poppy sort of touched on this in a recent livejournal entry, actually. Here's the thing. It really is a pretty goddamned good life, once I get past the constant, gnawing doubt, the coldsweats that come any time I allow myself to consider how precarious my situation is, the unstable bank accounts, the absence of health care or any realistic hope of retirement, the mess that eleven years of constant typing has made of my wrists, the depression that keeps me on pills that only make me ill in other ways, the almost constant isolation that comes with working alone, the unhealthy habits I develop to try to make it all a little easier, the publishers who don't pay me for months after they're supposed to, the whims of editors, the dull-witted, illiterate, wanna-be copyeditors who mutilate my work, the anonymous (and not so anonymous) internet cranks who aren't simply happy attacking my work but who find it necessary to also engage in ad hominem slander, the deadlines, the anxiety that comes from the unending necessity of disgorging ideas that are fresh and original and exciting and something I can actually write, and so on and on and on and on.

If you can get past all that, yes, it's easy as falling off a log.

After the various and sundry trials of the last year — hell, the last two years — these words, if I do say so myself, seem even more astute than when I wrote them way back on 30 November 2003. You can read the whole entry here.

I'll be putting a copy of the lettered edition of The Five of Cups (leatherbound, traycased, signed, extra material not in the other editions) up on our eBay page later this afternoon or this evening. The winner of the auction not only gets the book, they also will be getting Monster Doodle Sculpture #4.

And, of course, there's still the poll, re: the monthly weird erotica subscription service. We now have a whopping 94 people who've asked for subscriptions. Given that I'm capping this thing at 125 members, that doesn't leave many open slots. I'm very pleased with the response and greatly appreciate all the e-mails and "yes" votes.

Day before yesterday, I managed only 542 words on Chapter Nine of Daughter of Hounds, but yesterday I did 1,418 words (which almost made up for things being so frustrating on Tuesday). There's this thing that happens to me sometimes. I conceive of a scene and hold it in my head, waiting to be written, for months and sometimes even years. And when I finally sit down to write it, my expectations are so great that I cannot begin to get it right. Nothing I write comes close to the clarity of the scene in my head. I've had this happen to me again and again and again. It usually, but not always, involves a climactic scene. That's the case with the end of Chapter Nine, Soldier confronting the Bailiff. So, I'd thought Chapter Nine would be done on Tuesday, then I thought for sure I'd finish on Wednesday, and now I see that (if I'm fortunate) it will be finished today, on Thursday. I tried to reach the end yesterday, but, about 5 p.m. I felt the sloppiness setting in, the sloppiness that means I've been at the keyboard for too many hours and I'm no longer thinking clearly.

On Tuesday, I also started my "revision" of Threshold for the mass-market paperback edition. It's not a true revision. I'd never do that. I was entirely too annoyed by Stephen King's revision of The Stand in the early 1990s to actually revise Threshold, even though I'd certainly write it differently, were I to write it now. There's a lot of stuff about the prose I'd do differently. But that's what new books are for. Anyway, I made it through the prologue ("In the Garden of Proserpine"). Also, my comp copies of the chapbook A Little Damned Book of Days arrived yesterday, along with signature sheets for The Merewife, and I'm very pleased with the collage I did for the chapbook's cover. Oh, and the signature sheets for the hardback edition of Subterranean #2 arrived day before yesterday. Things have been busy around here.

Halloween weather has finally come to Atlanta. Spooky and I did a long walk around Freedom Park Tuesday evening, and there was an absolutely spectacular sunset, the city skyline silhouetted against grey-purple clouds with fiery pink-red underbellies. The neighborhood is awash in pumpkins, including a surprising number of the weird white ones that I've taken to calling "Dancy pumpkins." Yesterday, Spooky carved two of our seven pumpkins into jack-o'-lanterns, and she's gonna carve a third today. I think she's going to try to make a cat jack-o'-lantern. At least, she said that she was. The air is cold and mostly dry, and the leaves are beiginning to change and fall.

I found a short but pleasing review of Threshold in a Spanish blog yesterday. I'm just fluent enough in Spanish that I could make sense of it: El Umbral del libro por Caitlin R. Kiernan es gran. Ella es un maestro del idioma inglés y es un poeta asombroso. Las palabras son suavizan. El cuento es un cuento del horror y es muy original. Yo recomiendo. Unlike the Finnish article, which someone's going to have to translate for me. Also, Colleen Mondor, who did such a marvelous review of To Charles Fort, With Love for Bookslut, has nice things to say in her blog about The Five of Cups (scoll down to "Vampires, Jesuits and A Mighty Big Wind").

I've been getting a fair bit of paleo' reading done. The September 2005 issue of the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology arrived a week or so ago. I started on p. 623 with "A new specimen of Neuquensaurus australis , a Late Cretaceous saltasaurine titanosaur from north Patagonia." I saw a documentary Monday night (I think), on the discovery of the basal sauropod Tazoudasaurus naimi in the Lower Jurassic of Morocco, which led me to seek out the type description of the Middle Jurassic Moroccan sauropod, Atlasaurus imelakei.

And I'm slowly approaching the end of Final Fantasy X. Last night, I beat some crazy machina that Seymour sent after Yuna, then fought for Kimahri Ronso's honour, then scaled Mt. Gagazet, only to discover I have to battle yet another incarnation of frelling Seymour.

Meanwhile, the poll continues. As of this morning, we have 68 people who've said they want to subscribe, but I'm going to leave this poll open for while. Now it's time to start talking with artists and web gurus and suchlike to solve the technical aspects of actually making this project happen. Oh, and while I do very much appreciate the concern of those of you who've expressed worry that I might not have time to take this project on, don't worry — I do. If I didn't, I wouldn't even be suggesting it. I really think it's going to be something drad, and I'm looking forward to making it happen. If you're interested, please vote in the poll or drop me an e-mail at lowredmail@mac.com or check out the "Vignette Subscription" thread on the phorum. Thanks!