Caitlín R. Kiernan

A lowly 61˚F outside just now, and I'm not sure it's all that warmer in the house. But that's why, long ago, some crazy motherfucker grabbed a sheep and some knitting needles and invented the sweater. Still, I want summer back. Especially given that July was, essentially, lost to various and sundry bullshit.

Yesterday, we made it through chapters 2 and 3 of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. It's going well. The copy-editor hasn't made me want to break her/his neck even a single time. Maybe happenstance or sanity has bred a new species of copy-editor. Today, we move on to chapters 4 and 5.

Starting to feel like a shut-in again. Too much work. Too much crappy weather.

Oh, but you remember, back in 1988, when Nicolas Cage ran through the streets of Manhattan screaming that he was a vampire? Sure you do. Anyway, turns out, he was telling the truth, and some comedian on eBay will sell you proof for only one million dollars. Can anyone say "ghost in a jar"? That's okay. I can.*

Last night, at 6:48 p.m. EDT, I sent my first Skype message, thereby entering, irrevocably, this vile age of excessive, shallow social contact. At 7:39 p.m. EDT, I almost accidentally made my first video call on Skype. Fortunately, I was able to hit cancel in time. Mostly, I think Spooky and I plan on using Skype as a sort of intercom, so we won't have to yell back and forth, our voices ringing alarmingly loudly (and yet unintelligibly) down the immemorial halls and off the walls of the house. The cats are grateful, but I remain dubious.

I think I've reached the end of that portion of The Book of Cthulhu which I deem worthwhile. Last night, I read Ann K. Schwader's "Lost Stars," which has it's moments – and some intriguing ones, at that – but which never really manages to coalesce into a genuinely effective whole. Which is a shame, as the image of "Ammutseba" devouring a Leonid meteor shower above the Flatirons of Colorado was, indeed, apocalyptically chilling. Also, I'm very pleased that Spooky's sort of re-discovered Manly Wade Wellman. Last night, she read "Where Angels Fear" and "Nobody Ever Goes There."

And now, Red Bull! And my red pen! And...whoa, look. The contracts from Subterranean Press for Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart have just arrived. Cool beans.

Shut In,
Aunt Beast

* Actually, the rational explanation for the Nicolas Cage "vampire photo" is that time travel will soon become a reality.