Caitlín R. Kiernan

Home again, home again. Back to the scorch. Yes, the heat continues here in Providence, and likely that means this will be a somewhat meandersome, unfocused entry. Last night, at midnight, the thermostat inside was still at 87F, though it was in the mid seventies Outside. We expect some relief tomorrow, then cooler weather; the meteorologists say there's cooler air (low eighties, as opposed to nineties) on its way.

I've never been very good at the whole "Con Report" thing. Better not to try. It went well, and I was pleasantly surprised by Readercon. Next year, I plan to attend for the whole four days. It was good seeing people I'd not seen in ages (and, apologies, but I'm far too hot, for the most part, to bother with LJ tags): Ellen Datlow, for example, and Gwenda Bond, and Robert Killheffer, and Michael Morano, and Cecilia Tan. And to finally meet people I've only known from LJ and/or email —— Elizabeth Bear (though our paths only crossed once), Greer Gilman, Neil Clarke, Geoffrey Goodwin, Eric Van, Rose Fox, and, see, I'm so damned hot I can't recall any more names than that. Dr. Muñoz has been rolled into the office, but has not yet made it bearable. My thanks to Theo Black (who is Holly Black's husband, and I somehow managed not to meet Holly) for the gift of the marvelous Chiana cup he made himself. And there was a belated birthday gift from the folks at the Weird Tales booth, so my thanks for that, as well. The panels went well. The reading went well (I threw candy, and read "The Steam Dancer (1896)" and the first section of "Salammbô Redux (2007)"). The dealer's room was grand, but I was good and spent virtually no money there, though I did manage to snag a 1921 hardback of Edgar Rice Burroughs Thuvia, Maid of Mars for a mere $5, and I also picked up a copy of David Larkin's Giants (1979), which I had in high school, but someone "borrowed" (and you know how that so often goes). Two dealers were even well-stocked with my books, which pleased me. On Sunday afternoon, after my last panel, I had an hour-long interview with Locus, and, truthfully, that was the only genuinely stressful part of the con. Though Liza Trombi, who conducted the interview, soon put me at ease. I am told it will appear in the magazine sometime in the next 3 months to a year. And I know there are people and things that I'm forgetting, but like I said, I just don't do con reports. And it's hot. It was all very strange, after avoiding such things for almost four years. I guess I'm back in the saddle again. Oh, and it was heavenly, having air conditioning for two days (though some parts of the hotel were uncomfortably cold). Spooky didn't take many photos, but there are four behind the cut:

( Readercon 19 )

We got home about 7 p.m., to find my comp copies of Subterranean: Tales of Dank Fantasy waiting in the back stairwell. It includes my aforementioned story, "The Steam Dancer (1896)," as well as work by Poppy, Joe Lansdale, Tim Powers, Mike Carey, Kage Baker, William Browning Spencer, and others. A gorgeous book. Which reminds me to remind you that subpress in now taking preorders on A is for Alien. And, also, I want to mention that Bill Schafer has informed me that we were able to get the cover artist for A is for Alien that I've been hoping for months we'd be able to get —— Jacek Yerka —— the brilliant Polish surrealist who did Mind Fields with Harlan Ellison back in 1994.

If you've not already, please have a look at the current eBay auctions, which are set to end tomorrow. Bid if you are able and so disposed. Thank you.

So, yes. Back in Providence. The heat kept us up late last night, as it was simply too hot to even try to sleep. We had Chinese take-out for dinner (too hot to cook). We ate ice cream. Took cold baths. Watched Joss Whedon's Dr. Horrible's Sing-A-Long Blog in its entirety, then watched Goran Dukic's Wristcutters: A Love Story (2006), an oddly adorable film we both liked quite a lot. We played two rounds of Unspeakable Words, and I won both. I finished Chapter Nine of Fraser's Triassic book, which mostly focused on the faunas from the South American Ischigualasto and Santa Maria formations, including such creatures as Herrerasaurus, Eoraptor, Riojasaurus, Saurosuchus, Saturnalia, and Staurikosaurus. Etc. and etc. I did manage to get to bed before 4 ayem. Just. Anyway, I have to try to get some work done now, as I have only twelve days to finish Chapter Three of The Red Tree, write a new piece for Sirenia Digest #32, write an introduction for Joshi's new Arthur Machen collection, and get the issue together. Oh, that reminds me, this month's digest will include something special from Sonya Taaffe, plus an interview by Geoffrey Goodwin with artist Richard A. Kirk. Don't miss it!

I think all Monday's should begin with e-mail from Leticia Aguilar and Kra Krarosaline. It's a good way for the day to begin. It makes it easier to believe I'm part of some vast conspiracy of pirates, smugglers, chorus girls, alien bounty hunters, and Dutch diamond merchants. Of course, the illusion would be easier to maintain if said e-mails were not spam trying to sell me script-free Vicodin and black-market Viagara, and if the names had not been randomly generated by some spambot somewhere. Still, I take my illusions where I can find them.

Yesterday went well. Busy, but well. We found all the Ostara-related things we needed at the Phoenix and Dragon. There's was an amusing moment when the young man at the register (it makes me feel like an age'd spinster, writing "the young man at the register," and presently that amuses me) who was new was examining the bits of stone we'd selected and couldn't identify the bloodstone (green jasper with bits of iron oxide). When another employee finally told him what it was, he said, indignantly, "But it's green." I almost laughed. "Yes," he was told by the other employee, "but see all these tiny flecks of red?" To which he replied, "That's kind of creepy." Which seemed to confirm my earlier suspicions that he was one of those very sensitive New-Age, indie-rock Buddhist boys (and there's nothing wrong with that, mind you). I went the whole day without eating, just one of those days when I forgot to frelling eat, and my protein- and carb-deprived body passed out about six and slept until seven. Spooky cooked a pizza for dinner, which made the hunger go away. We watched the new ep of The Sopranos, which was superb, and we both loved that it closed with Moby's "When It's Cold I'd Like To Die." The consecration ceremony went well. I'm always the nervous one. Afterwards, I carried a violet candle into each room, and Spooky recited a farewell to winter which I'd written. I think I got to bed about two and lay there listening to "When It's Cold I'd Like To Die" on repeat while Spooky puttered about online. Later, she came in and read me Robert McClusky's One Morning in Maine. I fell asleep about halfway through, but, annoyingly, awoke as soon as she was done and was awake until well after three. Then I awoke from troublesome dreams at eight and thought that was all the sleep I'd get, but dozed off again until ten.

Spooky was reading me a bit of Amanda Palmer's blog yesterday, and it touched on something important that I'm not sure I've ever talked about here. Amanda writes (behind the cut):

( in her e. e. cummings way )

And, yes, that was a very long quote, and I hope that Amanda won't mind, but it was easier than restating it all. This is the first time I've ever heard another artist admit this. That their passion for the art form which they create/perform has been tainted by the fact that they've become a professional practitioner of it. I'd long ago assumed it was just me. I used to love to read. I read voraciously. Up until about 1994 or so, about the time my fiction started selling. By 1998, I'd pretty much stopped reading novels. And this is why. Reading had become work. Somehow, the old passion for reading had been undone by the fact that it was now my job to write. I come to fiction these days and only rarely can I enjoy it. My mind is too clouded with thoughts I never thought in the old days. How did that get past the copyeditor? How did that get past the editor? And if I believe the writer's not as talented as me, and they happen to be more successful, all I can think is why? And if the author's more talented than me, but nowhere near as successful, all I can think is why? Jealousy and matters of inequity arise. The fickle nature of audience. I waste energy envying X's ability or their readership, or I get entirely distracted and angry that so few people are reading Z. It goes on and on like this. And I read less and less fiction. And even if I can avoid all these things, I can never escape the fact that reading is now work. No longer can I read for the sake of reading. When I read, it's no longer to satiate the part of my mind that craves story. I get that from movies now. When I read, I can only analyze and quantify and pick apart and critique and think about the marketplace and what I'll write next and why I'm not this good or how I'm so much better. Being a writer has ruined reading for me. I still read short stories sometimes. Spooky reads me novels, which usually works, though she often gets interrupted by me ranting about something or another. I can't even go near a comic book. Poetry is still safe, which is one reason I don't write more of it. At least I still have poetry. And non-fiction. I read a lot of non-fiction.

I should also mention that dead writers are usually safe, as I can neither envy them nor be angry they aren't being treated better. Okay, that last part isn't true. I often get angry about dead writers who aren't treated better. A handful of living writers are safe: Harlan, Ray Bradbury, Ramsey, Peter...a few others. The reasons why these writers are safe vary a bit, but it's usually because they're simply, objectively, and vastly more talented than I am, and I know it, and, besides, I've worshiped them since childhood.

Amanda writes:

listening to music has become WORK.
i don't want it to be. i listened to music for years because i loved it, not because i wanted anything for or from it, not because i wanted to DO something with it.
though that's not really true....even in high school i was making music videos in my head to every song on my walkman. but that was outside reality, it doesn't count.

The "outside reality" bit is an important point. I was writing poetry and short stories twenty years before my first fiction sale, but I never believed, not really, that any of it would be published. That it would become about making art and making money and sales reports and return rates and critics and readers and agents. Anyway, I'm sorry to see someone else struggling with this, but I'm also comforted that I'm not the only one. I would ask the other professional writers reading this, because I've never had the nerve to do so, has something like this happened to you? I know that many of you are heavy readers.

Argh. This has gone on far too long, and there are things I need to get done. Wind her up and watch her go. Damn straight. Please have a look at the eBay auctions. Thanks. "See" you later.

Postscript: Good luck today, Sonya.