greygirlbeast: (Nar'eye)
Proceeding as it did from the dreams, yesterday was a Very Bad Day during which nothing was written or edited or even planned. Virtually nothing of note was accomplished. Yesterday got an L in my day planner, whether it earned one or not. The dreams this morning were almost as bad, or as good, depending upon one's frame of reference and desires. Safer to say, the dreams this morning were as segregated from this waking life and as possessed of their own integrity. I need to have the Ambien refilled. At least the Ambien makes it hard for me to remember the dreams.

I cannot afford to lose even one more day over the next two and a half months.

Push it away. Push it all away.

I did get this comment, from [livejournal.com profile] shadowmeursault, in response to yesterday's entry, which I thought contained some good questions, so I'm quoting it here:

do you know the "answers" to your own mysteries? do you ever feel the need to justify a suspension of disbelief, even to yourself? or are you content to leave your mysteries as mysteries, even to your own mind? an example being the hemispherical world in Murder of Angels. do you, as its creator, know all of its nuances, or are you content with the little mysteries it gives you?

I cannot think of a single example of me knowing anything much more than what has been revealed in the stories themselves. Which is to say, I'm not holding out. Sometimes, I've sort of felt like reviewers and readers suspected that I was...holding out. But I'm not. If it's not there on the page, I likely am as much in the dark as you. I only find the answers I find as I write. There are very few exceptions. For example, I only learned about the connection between Dancy Flammarion and Spyder Baxter, and the connection between the Weaver and Dancy's "angel," as I was writing "Bainbridge" last December and January. Of course, I still don't know if Spyder's father was "only" schizophrenic, or if Dancy's mother was only "schizophrenic." When these questions are left unanswered, I'm not being dishonest with the reader. I simply never found the answers myself. Usually, that's because I preferred to leave the questions unanswered in my own mind. Maybe someday I'll draw a map of the hemispherical world, but I have not yet. Mostly, it's a big blank for me. The mysteries mean more to me than the possible solutions. I'll take a really good question, filled with endless possibility, over a sterile concrete answer any day of the week.

On that note, while the mini-series was mediocre overall, I was impressed and pleased that so much ambiguity was allowed to persist at the conclusion of The Lost Room. I kept expecting some hackneyed explanation: the Occupant must have had dealings with the Roswell aliens; or Room 10 was the result of a Cold war experiment; or the Objects were the components of a time machine which had crashed in Gallup, New Mexico on May 4th, 1961. But no. We were allowed to keep the mystery. For that alone, The Lost Room is to be commended. I kept wishing that it could have been just a little smarter, just a little less TV, but at least it was halfway decent TV. Which is fortunate, as I gave it six hours and suffered through the same insufferable commercials for three nights running.

Merrilee, my NYC agent, sent me a box of cookies and brownies from Solomon's Gourmet Cookies in Chicago (since 1943). The jelly cookies were especially good.

I'll be adding more items to the eBay auctions today or tonight. Please have a look. Lately, I really haven't felt like dealing with the tedium and frustration that is eBay, but a check is long overdue. A rather large check from a publisher, which was due two months ago. And the guilty party is neither Subterranean Press nor is it Penguin. It's someone else. At this point, I do not expect to be paid until at least January. My need to be paid cannot be allowed to interfere with the vacations and religious holidays of others. So, it's back to eBay. I may even list a second Daughter of Hounds ARC, though I said I wouldn't. Of course, when I said that, I thought surely I'd be paid by Thanksgiving, at the latest. Silly nixar.

In response to one my comments yetserday about NeoPaganism, [livejournal.com profile] morganxpage wrote:

I think that this is caused by the same thing a lot of other problems within the NeoPagan (and particularly, the Wiccan) communities: non-conversion. Most NeoPagans never truly convert to their NeoPagan religions, instead holding on to their previously Western Judeo-Christian beliefs, often without realizing that that is what they're doing. NeoPaganism becomes a new surface mask for the previous belief system. So instead of truly appreciating and serving Nature, they hold on to the belief that Nature is meant to serve them, which stems from Biblical teachings.

I think you're right, only I'd not confine the source of the failed conversion problem to "Biblical teachings." This is a problem with humanity as a whole, not soley with those humans with a JudeoXtian background. Humans have always had a tendency to imagine the world as this thing which revolves around humans. I see it in all the world's religions, to one degree or another. The inability to grasp that the nonconscious universe is wholly indifferent to the needs and desires of humanity or of any other species, for that matter. The refusal to view Nature as Nature instead of anthropomorphizing it as Mother Nature or the Goddess or Gaia or what have you. There are no gods and there are no goddesses, excepting our concepts of them. There is only the universe, and humanity is only a component of that system. No one and nothing "out there" is watching out for us. And, looking at Pleistocene and Holocene extinction patterns on Earth, it's clear that most PaleoPagans were ultimately no less anthropocentric and short-sighted, in terms of viewing Nature as something to be exploited. It is a myth that all indigenous peoples the world over held Nature in higher regard than their own immediate well-being. The present extinction event began long before the arrival of Xtianity and the fires of industry, even before the development of agriculture. Ultimately, I am asking that humans stop behaving like humans, not that NeoPagans stop behaving like Xtains (though that would be nice, too). I'm asking people to hack millions of years of genetic hardwiring and reboot (I mean these things figuratively, not in the transhumanist, singularitarian sense). I'm expecting people to let go of the comforting lies. While I'm at it, I'll take the goddamn moon, as well.

Okay. I need to be working on something for the December Sirenia Digest. I need to get moving.

Postscript (2:15 p.m. CaST; 1:15 p.m. EST): Upon reflection, it seems as though, increasingly, this journal has become less about my writing and more about things I'm probably better off not discussing at all publicly. If nothing else, it's hard to imagine that I'm not boring the crap out of some people, while leading others to conclude I am a complete lunatic and alienating still others. So, from here on, I believe I will be confining myself primarily to that subject for which this journal was created — my writing and the promotion of my writing. The rest is likely only white noise, anyway.
greygirlbeast: (Bowie2)
The sort of nightmares that came this morning, the sort that leave me dreamsick and ill-rested, I think that I've called them spectacular in previous entries. This is not inaccurate, in that they surely present spectacle.

There was too much work yesterday, all day and well into the night. I wrote 1,018 words. Spooky did a very complicated photo for the website redesign, then did some work on it in PhotoShop, only to discover I'd left a crucial element out of the composition, so it has to be reshot today. Then we went back to proofreading Low Red Moon for the mmp edition due out in August and made it through Chapter Ten ("The Pool of Tears") and Chapter Eleven ("Lullaby") — pp. 206-263 in the Roc tpb.

Actually, we had a long walk late in the afternoon, almost dusk, before the proofreading started. Back to Freedom Park, west past the wax-myrtle bushes all the way to Freedom Parkway, then north and east, following North Ave. back towards home. The weather was warm, 65F, and I could walk in a tank top. But it was determined that North Ave. at "rush hour" is not suitable for walking, as the fumes from automobiles cannot possibly help but negate any healthful benefits. Spooky and I made chili for dinner, with lots of lime and Jose Cuervo Especial.

As we near the end of Low Red Moon, the deck chairs thing isn't bothering me quite as much. No doubt, it's still just as true, but I think I've allowed myself to become more caught up in the story and the characters instead of dwelling on the futility of hoping for a wider readership. In this book more than anything else I've ever written, there are moments when the brutality of the events in the novel — the brutality of that fictional history — leaves me feeling oddly ashamed and angry with myself. One of those little voices in my head, not so different from Narcissa's ghosts, murmurs, It didn't have to be like that. It could have gone differently. But I know that's a lie. Or, rather, I know that if I'd dodged the truth of the story I was telling, I'd have written a lie, a deeper lie than the superficial lie of all fiction. Be true to the story, not your conscience. Be true or get a job flipping burgers. Truth is the only thing I have to offer at the end of the day. My truths. They will not always be the same as your truths. Reading yesterday, I kept seeing all these "unrealised realities," how it all might have gone, how it might have been less brutal, if I'd simply allowed myself to lie about the whole thing.

I think there may still be a few copies of the limited edition of Tales from the Woeful Platypus available, but I'm not sure. I expect they'll all be gone by the end of this week, at the latest.

When the work was finally done, we watched the first part of the Sci-Fi Channel's mini-series, The Lost Room. It was better than what I'd expected. What I'd expected was the sort of thing Vertigo's publishing these days. It's a little bit better than that. The influence of House of Leaves is everywhere, right down to the rumbling growl we hear each time the door to room is opened or shut, each time it "resets." And I'm pretty sure that Elle Fanning is Dakota's clone. I'm left wondering how many Fanning's will follow. Perhaps there will be one available when the Dancy movie is finally cast. Anyway, we'll be watching the rest of The Lost Room. It has promise. I'm just hoping the ending lives up to the premise. I'm hoping, if there must be resolution at the end, the writers came up with something that will actually surprise me. I'm not usually like that. I don't often ask for originality and tend to feel that the quest for novelty is one of the less endearing traits of science fiction literature and film. But in this case, I know there will be more explanation of the phenomenon than is called for, so it better be some revelation that's worth the spoiling of a perfectly good mystery. In fact, that could be my rule of thumb for resolution in dark fantasy and sf: if there must be resolution and explanation, it must be something worth its weight in mystery. Most times, I'd be content with the mystery (as in House of Leaves, for example).

Okay. The day isn't going to get started until I end this entry. So —

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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