greygirlbeast: (twilek1)
A wild, rainy early afternoon here in Providence. Rainy and warm (50˚F). I hear rumours it may be snowing in Nova Scotia. Regardless, I hardly slept "last night," despite quite a cocktail of psychotropics, as Monsieur Insomnia came to join the dance. I read The Dawn Seekers until six ayem, when I finally drifted off. My dreams are better left unspoken, but I understand Spooky spent part of her slumber being romanced by Walter Bishop.

No writing yesterday. Only the search for a story, one to replace "The Diamond Friendly" (now shelved). I think I may have found just such a story. Or, well, what might grow into a story. This is for Sirenia Digest #74, by the way. Though, there are many others waiting in the wings, even though I began turning down almost all short-story solicitations many months ago. Mostly due to my work with Dark Horse. Still, I have about half a dozen to write this year (not counting the digest), plus my essay for Chicks Dig Time Lords. I will admit, I'm still a little uncomfortable with the fact that lesbians and female transgenders were not covered under Chicks Dig Time Lords. Anyway, as soon as Sirenia Digest #74 is out, I'll begin Alabaster #5.

By the way, and by the by, Dark Horse Presents #9 will be released on February 22nd and will include an eight-page sneak preview of Alabaster. And only thirteen days after that, The Drowning Girl will be released. Do me a favour. Follow that link to the novel's page, and click "like," right there beneath my name. It can't hurt sales, and it might give me some idea how many people are still reading this blog. Thank you kindly. Anyway, I'll be spending a great deal of March and April (and probably May, and...) promoting both books, including an uncommon (for me) number of public appearances (TBA, and only in the Northeast, Manhattan to Boston). This will eat up even more writing time, as I cannot write and travel, though I know many others can. Plus, who knows what crud I'll contract, all that human contact. Howard Hughes is unaccustomed to the microbial life outside her plastic bubble of social sterility.

As for last night...well, too, recreation. A nice bit of C18H21NO3, far too much Star Wars: The Old Republic (my Sith and my Jedi), Curiosity Cola, and other nonsense. I went to bed, finally, and read The Dawn Seekers, and didn't sleep...but we've already covered that part, haven't we? Ah, I also read "Re-description and evolutionary remarks on the Patagonian horned turtle Niolamia argentina Ameghino, 1899 (Testudinata, Meiolaniidae)" is the most recent JVP.

My thanks to whoever sent me the new Penguin Classics The White People and Other Weird Stories by Arthur Machen, along with Franz Wright's Kindertotenwald.

Somewhere Near Awake,
Aunt Beast

Postscript: I don't have a lot of favourite designers, but...I just got the news that one of them, Eiko Ishioka, has died...and...fuck.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
A rainy day here in Providence. It's nice.

Kyle and I have been hammering out specifics on the still photography/book trailer project for The Drowning Girl, and it's a stressful affair. Well, if you're me. I can make stress out of thin air. Anyway, the Kickstarter is going extraordinarily well (166%)...and...Michael Zulli has just come on board to do the actual painting, The Drowning Girl, which, in the novel, was painted in 1898 by an artist named Phillip George Saltonstall. Zulli has become our Saltonstall, which is beyond amazing.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,480 words on Chapter Five of Blood Oranges, and talking through with Kathryn what remains of the story, blocking it (a term I use instead of "plotting," as blocking is much looser), I begin to see that it's not a ten-chapter book, or a nine-chapter book. Probably, it's an eight-chapter book. Otherwise, this becomes gratuitous. And I'll not have that. Regardless, the word count will be somewhere between 70,000 and 80,000 words.

Some news regarding Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart (Subterranean Press, 2012). The limited edition will include an extra volume (probably trade paperback), containing The Yellow Alphabet and 10,000 words of new fiction (likely in the form of two new stories). And I'll be working with Lee Moyer again on the cover.


A thought last night. Actually, a storm of thoughts whirling into a vortex. But, I'll play nice and call it a thought. Singular and calm. And it was just this: In today's subgenre-obsessed market, Harlan Ellison would be tagged a "horror writer." No, really. Go back and read the bulk of his fiction. Usually, he's writing "horrific sf" (as a disparaging Locus reviewer said of The Dry Salvages, "This is what happens when a horror writer tries to write SF"). Ellison's greatest achievements are almost all, at their roots, horrific. They're not about the sailing off into the stars, or the future, or the possibilities of technology, and finding a better world for mankind. Look at, for example, "The Prowler in the City at the Edge of the World" (1967), or "Shattered Like a Glass Goblin" (1968), or "The Whimper of Whipped Dogs" (1973), or even "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" (1967). Though hailed as one of the most important SF writers of the 20th Century (I'd simply say one of the most important writers, period, and dispense with your fucking qualifying adjectives), if time were scrambled and he emerged into today's literary marketplace, a new writer, Harlan would be pegged a "horror writer." Probably, he would never receive all those Nebulas and Hugos. Being labeled "a horror writer" would define him in the eyes of NYC editors, and this would absolutely have a great influence on what he could and could not sell and see published. And this would be a crime of the first fucking order.

Stop thinking inside the genre paradigm, people. By doing so, you destroy art and opportunity. It's fiction, all of it. It's all literature. We need no other words to accurately define it. We need no reductionist baloney.


I don't feel right any longer saying, "Last night I watched television," when, in fact, I streamed video files across the internet from Netflix or Hulu. Anyway, last night Spooky and I gave AMC's Mad Men a try, beginning with the first two episodes. And were very impressed. Then we finished Season One of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, and began Season Two. At some point I'll maybe be able to summarize my thoughts on all this L&O stuff. After hundreds more episodes. I also read "New unadorned hardrosaurine hadrosaurid (Dinosauria, Ornithopoda) from the Campanian of North America" (very cool beast, is Acristavus gagslarsoni) in JVP. And we read more of Carrie Ryan's The Forest of Hands and Teeth, and I read more of Denise Gess and William Lutz' Firestorm at Peshtigo: A Town, It's People, and the Deadliest Fire in American History. We're trying to get our bedtimes back to something sane. Maybe 2:30 ayem, instead of 5 ayem. Last night, I was asleep by four, I think. Baby steps.

Giving Genre the Massachusetts State Bird,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Narcissa)
I've only been out of bed for less than an hour, and, already, I've had to calculate the temperature of the sun's core in Kelvins, Celsius, and Fahrenheit. It's going to be that sort of day.

Yesterday was a blur of getting packed and ready to leave later this afternoon for Readercon 22. But we did get a heavy rain, and the temperature in the house plunged into the low 80sF. When I crawled out of bed this ayem, it was only 71˚F!!! I saw a goddamn penguin dancing with the platypus (cheeky bastard). Oh, the dodo? She played cello while the mothmen sang a three-part harmony.

Gotta wake up. Gotta get all that shit done I have not yet gotten done. Time's a wastin', kittens.

And for anyone giving [ profile] handful_ofdust (or anyone else) grief over the subject of the Author's Authority and Knowledge of Her or His Intent in Any Given Work of Fiction, go fuck yourself. Whoops, that just sort of slipped out. But...if I wrote the book, you do not disregard my comments on its meaning and/or implications as irrelevant. This is why we can't have nice things. The interwebs have far too many wannabe undergrad/grad lit-crit radfem queer-theory politicos out to nail "race-gender-class-fail" even if it means becoming exactly what they think they hate, and I, for one, couldn't care less what they believe. They are Nil. Remember how the Wicked Witch of the West met her end in Victor Fleming's 1939 adaptation of The Wizard of Oz? Well, toss a bucket of indifference on these fools, same thing happens. Or, you could say it's like slugs and salt. I'm sorry, guys, but if you dismiss William Faulkner's work just because he's a dead white guy, you're a wrongheaded asshole. You've been sipping at the purple Kool-Aid*. Oh, yeah. Sorry. Indifference!

I should probably finish this up and get back to packing. But if you're going to be at Readercon this weekend, my reading is at the ungodly hour of 11 ayem tomorrow. I'll be reading


from The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. And if you want a book/s signed, just find me, as I asked not to be scheduled for a formal signing. No limit to the books I'll sign.

Also, I will be blogging from the con, as we'll have internet in the room on Friday and Saturday, so problem solved. And I should be home fairly early on Sunday.

Give 'em hell, kittens.

Aunt Beast

* Jim Jones
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Any email that begins "Dear Beloved Friend" (or that has those words in its subject line) is either from a funeral parlor, evangelical Xtians, or an East-African money laundering scam.

I managed to get to sleep by three ayem this morning, and slept eight and a half hours, which is all but unheard of, as me and sleep goes. Yesterday's mood was so black, just before midnight I gave up trying to do much of anything. But, I'm getting ahead of myself, having begun the wrong way round.

It's raining today. I already miss the sunlight of yesterday. I didn't used to mind the rain.

Yesterday I was supposed to write more on Blood Oranges. Instead, I spent pretty much the whole afternoon dealing with the bonus section of illustrations that will be appearing in the limited edition of Two Worlds and In Between. I'd not been told we couldn't use color illustrations (because they have to be mechanically tipped in, etc. and etc.), so I'd included Ryan Obermeyer's marvelous cover for The Dry Salvages (it's there on his website; just use the menu until you find berliner dom). So, as I wasn't about to do the painting injustice by having it reproduced in black and white, I had to find a new piece to replace it (which wound up being a second Dame Darcy drawing from In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers. And there was more to dealing with the art, and more, and more.

And then my agent called...and we talked a lot. About the NEWS THAT IS SO GOOD, SO COOL I can't talk about it yet. After that, I was shot for the day. We had an early dinner, then headed out to the RISD museum for a FREE showing of Stanley Donen's Funny Face (1957). And then we strolled through the museum's temporary "Cocktail Culture" exhibit, and then we came home again.

I tried to rp, but the scene just kept feeling flatter and flatter, and I knew it was my fault and finally bowed out. I lay on the floor in the front parlor for a while, watching Spooky playing Alice: The Madness Returns, which is actually very beautiful. But the black mood grew blacker, and eventually I crawled off to bed. My pills let me sleep.

And that's yesterday, kittens. Today, the black mood is still with me. I'll sew something from it, which is usually the way of things.

Whiner: "Why are your stories always so dark?"

Me: "I make the best I can of what I'm given, that's why."

Whiner: "You're just not trying hard enough. You dwell on the darkness."

Me: "Go fuck yourself."

Now, that said, please do have a look at Round 2 of the Big Damn eBay Auction. Thanks.

Comments would be a kindness, here in the fading, last days or months or years of LiveJournal. Then again, now that we have Facebook, where communication apparently thrives in the absence of capitalization, proper spelling, and punctuation....*

Bound and Gagged,
Aunt Beast

* I'm not talking about people who misuse punctuation and capitalization. I'm talking about people who can't be bothered to use any at all.
greygirlbeast: (Eli1)
So, since it's after midnight here in Providence, and since I made that promise to myself back in March to write at least one journal entry every day for the period from April first until the end of July, I'll get something down before I head to bed. We have to leave early for Manhattan, so I'm taking my good-worker-bee pill and going to lie down.

Tomorrow, I will meet with my agent and we shall talk The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, Blood Oranges, and Blue Canary. Not necessarily in that order. Then, tomorrow night Spooky and I will enjoy Peter and Susan's hospitality, and we shall talk...about whatever we please.

A hideously rainy day today. Manhattan's going to be a deluge, so I am told.

My contributor's copies of Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2 arrived this afternoon. The box was wet; the books were well-wrapped and dry. "Hydraguros," One of my sf (science fiction, not San Francisco) stories is reprinted therein.

A special thanks tonight to Steven Lubold.

Work today consisted of getting ready to leave tomorrow, and email with my agent. Nothing thrilling, even by the standards of a freelancer. Tonight, we watched Henry Fonda and everyone else in the world in Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West (1968). It truly is one of the - if not the - most spectacular Westerns ever made. The film's cinematography puts every square millimeter of picture to work, so do not dare watch it pan-and-scan. And while it's one of the first truly gritty Westerns, it's possessed of an amazing and almost surreal choreography.

And now, I go to face the toothbrush. Next entry, Wednesday night.

Almost in Transit,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Bowie3)
Raining now. Raining and likely fifty-something out there. I don't feel like checking the actual, factual temperature. Spring – real Spring – is coming on very slowly, but very certainly. All the little specifics don't matter. Only what they add up to, that's what matters.

Don't mind me. I'm just a crazy lazy sitting in a chair.

Today seems to be looking at me the way an Irish wolfhound eyes a dog biscuit, so comments wouldn't be unappreciated.

Two days here to recount:

1) Thursday: I wrote 1,584 words on "Fake Plastic Trees." We tended to the new piercings, which are doing well. I didn't leave the house, though the possibility was briefly discussed. I was groggy from the new meds. I almost engaged in rp, but didn't because of the aforementioned wooziness. I played a little Rift, but sucked, thanks to the wooziness in question. During the day, much email. We may have chosen the author's photo for Two Worlds and In Between. Not one I expected we'd choose. But it's not yet final. I sent the "final" version of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir to my editor at Penguin, and she says the release date is still March 2012. Which surprises me, as I've been so late delivering the thing. In the evening, Spooky and I watched Jean-Jacques Annaud's very under-appreciated Enemy at the Gates (2001). I'd seen it twice before, but she'd not seen it. In all ways this film is wonderful, except for James Horner's suffocating score. That was Thursday, give or take.

2) Friday: I exchanged what felt like about a hundred emails with [ profile] kylecassidy, mostly regarding the book trailer for The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. I learned my lesson with the aborted trailer for The Red Tree. There are things I cannot do myself, and that's why there are other talented people in the world. I'll say more about it later, but the trailer's looking as if it'll be very cool. We're in the stage of casting about for models (Imp, Abalyn, and Eva), and finding locales, and all that fun stuff. I'll have more to say on this soon. I wrote very little yesterday on "Fake Plastic Trees," only about 400 words. I'm very near THE END, and I find myself shying away from the grimmest ending that may present itself. I wrote 400 words and had to step back, because it was a little too much to look at straight in the eye like that. Wicked little god you are, Aunt Beast, with all those universes clenched in your fists. Anyway, I'll probably finish the story today. I need to, as there's other work waiting. We left the house, and returned to Thayer Street, and I got the boots (thank you again, Jada). So, behind the cut, below, there's boot porn. They make me an inch taller, but what the fuck. I saw a very green willow. After dinner, we watched Tarantino's Kill Bill Vol. 2 again, since we watched Vol. 1 on Wednesday night. We played Rift, and Selwyn reached Level 30. She's becoming quite the bad-ass necromancer, out there doing the bidding of the Faceless Man. We read more of The Book Thief, and I decided what the book-club book will be next month (but don't ask; it's still a secret).

So, there. Two days, all squished up together. Condensed days.

There's talk of me being in Manhattan on the 17th of May. We'll see how that goes.

And I should decamp this blog for now, make an end to this entry, and face the woebegone day.

Boot Porn )

Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Cool and cloudy here in Providence, with storms headed our way. A much needed respite; the forecast high for today is a mere 79F.

Yesterday, Spooky and I read back over everything that's been written so far on Chapter One of the Next New Novel, about 5,000 words, and then I spent two or three hours tweaking the text, fixing continuity faux pas, and so forth. Today, the chapter moves forward. I also did some more work on the "Best of" ToC, which gets more daunting whenever I look at it. Right now, I've chosen twenty-five stories, but only about seven of them are in for sure. The others are varying degrees of maybe. And even if all twenty-five were included, that would only be half of the book, at most.

About four p.m., I had to stop working, to get ready for dinner Out. Spooky and I drove downtown (well, she drove; I rode) and met Joshi and his wife, Leslie, and another Providence author, Jonathan Thomas, in the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel. We had dinner at McCormick and Schmick's, which was very excellent. We talked of books, misadventures in philately, local history and geography, tortoises in diapers, cats, ball lightning, small presses, trains, and, of course, weird fiction and Lovecraft. At some point, I looked out towards the street and realized the sun had set, and that we'd been talking (and eating) for close to three hours. I do not often get such huge doses of social interaction. I gave Jonathan and Joshi each a copy of The Ammonite Violin & Others. We gave Jonathan a ride home. I think we got back to the House about 9:30 p.m.

Oh, and my thanks to Karen Mahoney in faraway London, for sending me a copy of Mark Salisbury's beautiful Alice in Wonderland: A Visual Companion, which is filled with pre-production and behind-the-scenes goodies from Burton's adaptation.

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Bid if you are able. Thanks.

And now I ought to wrap this up. I'm still groggy, and have to attend to email, and wake up, and all that rot. I am sleeping so much lately.
greygirlbeast: (white)
A rainy day here in Providence, and the high today is forecast at 58F, which is something of a change from the freakish low nineties of Wednesday. The sun will be back tomorrow, and the world is going green.

Yesterday, I wrote only 581 words on Chapter 1 of The Wolf Who Cried Girl. I'd have probably made it past a thousand, had I not felt the need to rewrite Everything Thus Far, so that the narrator is delivering her tale in past tense, instead of present tense. "This is what I remember about the night I met Eva Canning. She is walking down the road." became ""This is what I remember about the night I met Eva Canning. She was walking down the road." These are not actual sentences from the book, but rather rough approximations to illustrate the edit. I intended to explain here why I made the change, and how it was not necessarily the right thing to do, but I find I just don't have the requisite motivation. Too few people comment, which leads me— perhaps fallaciously —to suspect far fewer read the blog than once did. And, besides, I've never been much for talking shop, talking the mechanics of writing.

And there's this other matter. For the record, speaking as the author, The Red Tree does not have a "twist ending." Of course, that fact, and my stating that fact, will not prevent "reviews" of this sort:

I was able to figure out the twist ending less than halfway through.

Which is a neat goddamn trick, I'll admit, given that even I don't know precisely what happened to Sarah Crowe. I'm not usually fond of "twist endings," and I almost never employ that device in my own fiction. At the end of the novel, the reader is left, quite intentionally, with an inability to determine what has and has not been experienced by Sarah, what she might have imagined and what might be "real," where reality begins and ends, and all manner of other things. But a twist ending would require a concrete outcome of one sort or another (Bruce Willis is dead, To Serve Man is a cookbook, etc.), and that sort of ending is plainly lacking, by design. So...this "reviewer" is, at the very least, mistaken. Revelations of uncertainty do not a "twist ending" make.

I fucking hate snitty readers who are more interested in appearing world-weary and cleverer-than-thou than in paying attention to the book they're reading. I do not write books for these sorts of people.

I should wrap this up before I dig the hole any deeper.

Here are a couple of photos from Tuesday, a breath of spring after a hard winter:

6 April 2010 )
greygirlbeast: (walter3)
The sun is still with us. The day is bright, and Rhode Island is slowly coming to terms with the flooding— which, technically, is not yet over, as rivers continue to crest. Amtrak is still not running through the state, but I-95 reopened late yesterday.

All subscribers to Sirenia Digest should have #52 in their inboxes. If you haven't gotten it, speak up. I'm very happy with #52. Among other things, we've finally transitioned to having something like a genuine cover, instead of merely a title page. I'd love to hear reactions to the issue here today.

Yesterday was not exactly a work day, but nor was it a day off. The galley pages for the mass-market paperback edition of The Red Tree arrived from NYC. They have to be proofed and back to Roc by the 15th. There are mistakes that made their way into the first edition that have to be corrected. But yesterday, I only opened the envelope and glanced at the pages. This edition will be out in September.

Other bits of yesterday: Hubero lay on my desk, basking in the sun and fresh air coming in through the open office window; Spooky and I shared a corned beef and coleslaw sandwich from the Hudson Street deli; we had a walk, that took us to Dexter Training Ground and the Armory, where there were dogs and children and budding trees, clover and green grass (photos tomorrow); I had a long hot bath; I read an article from the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology; I talked with Bill Schafer about the new Ray Bradbury volume they're about to release, A Pleasure to Burn: Fahrenheit 451 Stories, which comes complete with a beautiful cover by the incomparable Joseph Mugnaini (1912-1992); Spooky made Spanish rice with chicken and pintos for dinner; and so forth. It was a day. A not bad day. There are far too few of those.

I announced last night on Facebook that I'm planning to have my back, shoulders, and both arms tattooed, and I think, the date being April 1st, no one believed me. But the announcement wasn't a prank. I'm talking with Vince about designing the three pieces. The first, which I hope would be done this summer, will be an octopus that will cover my entire back, shoulders to upper buttocks. But the whole series of tattoos would be sea themed (extinct and extant creatures), and very colorful. My skin has been blank far too long. I'm racing towards forty-six-years-old, and I want this done. There will be trilobites and bladderack, eels and eurypterids. I have to find a local tattoo artist I'm comfortable with. I expect the whole tattoo will take a couple of years to complete, beginning, hopefully, this summer.

In the new Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, I've made my way through several articles over the last week: "Bistahieversor sealeyi, gen. et sp. nov., a new tyrannosauroid from New Mexico and the origin of deep snouts in Tyrannosauroidea"; "A reappraisal of the origin and basal radiation of the Osteichthyes"; and "Demythologizing Arctodus simus, the 'short-faced' long-legged predaceous bear that never was." The third article was especially interesting, as it turns out that A. simus (fossils date from about 800,000-12,500 years ago), while truly gigantic, may not have been the "super-predator" it has often been characterized as being (it has even been invoked as an agent for delaying the radiation of Homo sapiens in North America); indeed, it appears also not to have been particularly short faced or long legged, when compared to various extant bear species.

Late last night— well, early this morning — as I was drifting off to sleep, there was a bump somewhere in the house. I came awake with a start, which startled Spooky awake. And my head was suddenly filled with new ideas— an entirely new approach —for The Wolf Who Cried Girl Spooky switched on the light and I jotted everything down (this was about 3:16 a.m.), so I wouldn't forget any of it. I am newly excited about the long-delayed novel.

As promised, here are a few screencaps from the ongoing Insilico rp, the latest incarnation of the Xiang AI (played by me), inside her Faraday cage:

Rebuilding the Perfect Beast, or Fifth's Secret )
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Here in Providence, the rain has stopped. The sky is a lighter shade of cloudy, and we're promised sun this afternoon. The temperature is supposed to go as high as 61F. So, improvements all the way round. We have been lucky. I think most of the city of Providence has been lucky. Looking at news reports and photographs, it's obvious that Providence is almost an island in the midst of the flooding. Part of I-95 has been closed indefinitely, and, at least as of yesterday, the Amtrak line to Boston wasn't running. We had black FEMA helicopters buzzing the city all day yesterday. My nerves are a little on edge from two days of constant sirens— fire trucks, police, ambulances. Spooky spoke with her mother yesterday, and their basement began taking water around 5:30 a.m. Tuesday morning, and her mom and dad had hardly slept since, using a shop vac to keep things as dry as possible.

We'd go to Moonstone Beach today, to get out of the House, but travel south is very slow and difficult at the moment, and we suspect that the road over the culvert connecting Card and Trustom ponds, which you must cross just before reaching the beach, has likely been overtopped, if not washed away. We'd try to get to Narragansett and Point Judith, but, again, I-95 is closed and the secondary roads are so backed up, people are being asked to avoid all unnecessary travel. And, truthfully, so much raw sewage (about 100 million gallons of combined sewage/rainwater...and fuck knows what else) has reached Narragansett Bay and Block Island Sound during the flooding, it'll be some time before the water's clean again. There's a ban in effect on shellfishing from Long Tree Point in North Kingstown, across Narragansett Bay past the southern tip of South Prudence Island to Carr Point in Portsmouth, until further notice.

So...yeah, we're okay. Most of Providence proper is okay. We went out late yesterday, to the market, and could see little sign of the flooding, except for the elevated level of the Providence River. We're lucky. The city is lucky. Much of Rhode Island has not been so fortunate. In a state where the unemployment rate was already at 13%, the economic impact of the flooding will be...well, it won't be good.

I did sleep almost eight hours last night, without Ambien.


And here we are, a quarter of the way through 2010. Time moves so fast I can watch it speeding by me.

Sirenia Digest #52 will be going out to subscribers this afternoon. Vince sent me the illustration for "Houndwife" yesterday (it's gorgeous), and I sent everything away to Gordon to be PDF'd, and I had the PDF in hand around 9:30 last night. But then I began obsessing about a bit of formatting, and a new PDF is being generated. So, apologies for the delay, and I thank you for your patience. Here's the cover for #52 (featuring Carlos Schwabe's Spleen and Ideal, 1907-1908):

greygirlbeast: (white)
Just something short to let people know we've not washed away. But the same can't be said for much of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. There's severe flooding all around us, from Pawtuxet all the way down to Exeter and into eastern Connecticut. Warwick has been especially badly hit, and we're hearing that Olneyville, which is not far from us, has flooding. We've just heard that the basement of Spooky's parent's place has flooded. This is the worst flooding in Rhode Island in the last century. It's still rainy today, but we're promised sunshine tomorrow.

Yesterday was spent putting together Sirenia Digest #52. As soon as I have Vince's illustration (he's having to work around sick children) the issue will go out to subscribers. It includes "Houndwife," as well as one of my favorite stories by Sonya Taaffe ([ profile] sovay), the novelette "A Ceiling of Amber, A Pavement of Pearl," which has previously appeared only in her collection Singing Innocence and Experience (Prime Books, 2005). I'm very pleased with how this issue has come together.

I think that's all for now. I'm just not up to blogging. Maybe tomorrow the sun will come back, and I'll find myself in a more talkative mood. Maybe I'll sleep tonight....
greygirlbeast: (Bjorkdroid)
Still raining here in Providence. Flooding across much of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Fortunately, the West Side of Providence is high enough that we only have to worry about leaking roofs and windows. The rain will be with us one more day, and then, supposedly, be gone. Rivers are flooding south of us. I understand Boston is set to break its rainfall record for the month of March.*

Last night, I slept almost eight hours, without Ambien. Huzzah.

Yesterday was spent formatting Sirenia Digest #52 (and proofreading, and writing the prolegomenon), which is pretty close to being ready to go out. I'm waiting on Vince Locke's illustration for "Houndwife." Last night, he sent me the pencils, and it's going to be gorgeous. I'm hoping the issue will go out to subscribers either tonight or tomorrow. By the way, I was reading over the Sirenia FAQ yesterday, and it really is woefully out of date. I'll try to fix that soon.

My goal for April— write the first two chapters of The Wolf Who Cried Girl, and, of course, produce Sirenia Digest #53.

Have I mentioned The Ammonite Violin & Others?

Late yesterday, sometime after 5 p.m., I decided that the little that was left to do on #52 could wait until today. One rainy day is as good for layout as the next rainy day. And I got dressed and ventured Outside, over to the East Side of Providence with Spooky, to the market. The Providence River was the highest I have ever seen it. Umbrellas were virtually useless. Anyway, Spooky made quesadillas for dinner, and then I spent much of the evening on Second Life, putting together a new avatar for the awakening of yet another copy of the Xiang AI. I'll post some screencaps tomorrow. It really is a beautiful, creepy av.

And I took some photos yesterday, as we drove through the dreary, dreary rain, just in case you ever wanted to see this city on a Very Rainy Day, through the water-slicked window of a moving automobile:

29 March 2010 )

*Postscript [1:46 p.m.]: Spooky just came in to tell me that they're talking about closing I-95, that this is the worst flooding Rhode Island has seen in a hundred years, and that the city of Warwick has declared a state of emergency.
greygirlbeast: (Barker)
I need a caffeine enema.

It's raining here in Providence. It will rain for two days more, say the weathermen. Then, supposedly, spring will return. I've not left the House since March 23rd, which makes six days. Not good, but nowhere near my worst. Work and the weather and fear of human contact conspire to make a recluse of me. But, Spooky has sworn I have to leave the house this evening.

Subway bombings in Moscow. Thoughts of the feel-good travesty that is "Earth Hour." The sinking of a South Korean vessel by a North Korean mine. The fact that, as of yesterday, the US war in Afghanistan has lasted longer than Vietnam, and takes its place as the longest "active" US war ever. These thoughts, all this news pollution that I cannot effect nor dismiss, beat about my eyes and ears and slow me down. They would shut me down, were I only a little more sane.

Yesterday, I had every intention of getting Sirenia Digest #52 laid out, including writing the prolegomena. But I only managed to proofread "Houndwife" and deal with the line edits to the story. Spooky had gone down to Saunderstown to her parents place, because her sister, Steph, was up from Brooklyn with our two-year-old-nephew, Miles. I stayed behind and tried to work. But after the proofreading...everything just sort of came apart. I puttered. I dithered. I read a small bit. I did nothing in particular, except think about how I ought to be working. Spooky made it back sometime after 5:30 p.m. I have a photo of Miles (Copyright © 2010 by Kathryn A. Pollnac):

So after having that marvelously unproductive day, we didn't get to bed until after 3 a.m., because we are bad kids who do not know when they've had enough WoW. Then, to make the day perfect, my insomnia kicked in (though I'd been all but nodding off at the iMac) and I had to take an Ambien. I think I didn't get to sleep until almost five. And that was my yesterday.

Oh, I did propose, via Twitter (*shudder*) that "steampunk" might be salvaged from an inevitable and imminent demise (thanks to hipness and assimilation by the masses) if we take to calling it "coalpunk." Someone kindly pointed out this title disregards wood-powered engines and suggested "smogpunk." And, actually, it was a rather fine suggestion. Come to think of it, I have never written steampunk. I have, however, written a bit of smogpunk. "Smogpunk" can help us divest steampunk of its peculiarly romantic overtones, that idealizing and redemption of the Industrial Revolution, that short-circuiting of what ought to be dystopian, by drawing attention to the true byproduct and consequence of all that steam...namely smog. It's not about the steam, clean and billowing, but the pall of smog in which any steampunk world would be shrouded.

No one will notice this nomenclatural coup, but there you go.

Have you preordered The Ammonite Violin & Others? Well, then, please do so. Thank you.

Okay. Must awaken. Must work....
greygirlbeast: (walter3)
The rain has gone, and left behind a blustery day. I dislike the gusting noise of the wind. For me, it is very near to the sound of insanity.

I am becoming reluctant to continue this journal. I'm not entirely sure why. It's become a valuable (valuable to me) means of keeping up with any number of things, and, also, I've come to rely upon it as a means of communicating news to readers. Partly, I suspect, my desire to end it may arise simply from the slow death that LiveJournal seems to be suffering. I've tried transitioning to Twitter and Facebook. But I've already given up on Twitter, and I strongly dislike Facebook. MySpace was never an option. I cannot understand why people have fled Blogger and LiveJournal for Twitter and Facebook. It's like giving up oranges for gummy bears. That is, there is nothing like a one-to-one correspondence. And Twitter and Facebook are unsuitable for my needs. So, I don't know what's going to happen. If I do eventually stop keeping this journal, I'll also stop posting to Facebook (I only post there now because the LJ is mirrored there). I suppose I will wait and see.

Spooky just called Sméagol "Mr. Muzzle." I do hope it's an appellation that doesn't stick.


Yesterday, we ventured out into the Deluges of March to see Miguel Sapochnik's Repo Men. It was not our first choice. We'd intended to see Floria Sigismondi's The Runaways, not realizing it isn't yet in general release. But I was sort of interested in Repo Men. It caused me a great deal of confusion a few weeks ago when I learned of the film. My first assumption, it was a big-budget, non-musical remake of Repo! The Genetic Opera. The premises are, essentially, identical. How could it be anything else? But, of course, I was wrong, as Repo Men is based on Eric Garcia's novel, The Repossession Mambo (2009, apparently based on a short story by Garcia that, he claims, has an origin that can be traced back to 1997). Apparently, the novel was being written while the screenplay for the film was being written by Garcia. This all gets very confusing, and questions of copyright infringement cannot help but arise. Repo! The Genetic Opera was first released on November 7, 2008, and the origins of the play that inspired the film date back to 1996.

Anyway, I tried to go into Repo Men with an open mind. And,'s sort of a mess. The first half of the film is a sprawling, unfocused disaster. The pacing's off. The story's a rehash of themes and images from Repo! The Genetic Opera, and the generally excellent cast feels wasted. There's a lot of annoying suburbia/family crap that feels like padding and/or a weak attempt to dishonestly cajole the audience into having sympathy for a character who is, of course, a legal serial killer. Indeed, I think the first half of the film could have been pared down by at least half an hour or so (the film has a 111 minute running time), and it would only have helped matters. However, the second half of the film— which is concerned with a repo man's (Remy, played by Jude Law) attempt to escape having his heart repossessed by his former employer —sort of redeems the first half. I actually enjoyed the second half. It caught my attention and held it. No, the second half of Repo Men is nowhere near as smart or cool or sexy as Repo! The Genetic Opera, but it made for a decent bit of futuristic action film, and the ending didn't take the easy way out. Still, I'd say wait for the DVD, and I'm glad we only paid matinée prices. But it's worth a look. The cast is strong, even if the script is wobbly and the direction uneven. I very much liked Alice Braga, and there are some nice visuals, and the soundtrack is very good. But I'm still waiting to find out exactly how (or if) Universal Pictures has avoided a lawsuit from Lion's Gate or Twisted Pictures (or any other party concerned with the creation of Repo! The Genetic Opera).


I didn't get much work done yesterday. I sat down to proofread a story that I've just sold reprint rights on, something I wrote in 2001. And I couldn't read more than the first couple of pages. I'm afraid I'm going to have to start refusing to permit reprints of anything I wrote before, say, 2003 or 2004. I've simply changed too much as an author, and I'm no longer fond of most of my earlier work (say 1992 to 2001). It's dispiriting to read a story I wrote nine years ago, and not be able to get through it. It's even more dispiriting to think that someone might encounter me for the first time through one of those earlier stories (or novels) and judge the writer I am now by them.

"Smile, folks. It only gets worse," said the Platypus to the clams.
greygirlbeast: (Ellen Ripley 1)
Rainy today. Rainy and chilly. I'm told this is what Providence in March is supposed to be like; I trust my sources, but it still looks, to my eyes, like February.

Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press has sent me what is, to my knowledge, the first review of The Ammonite Violin & Others. It's quite a good review. From the current issue of Library Journal:

From a hauntingly gruesome tale of a secret cave near a New England lighthouse ("Madonna Littoralis") to the bittersweet account a woman born to minister to ghosts ("The Madam of the Narrow Houses"), these 20 stories, written between 2005 and 2007 and previously published in the subscription-only Sirenia Digest, reveal the author's remarkable storytelling talent and her ability to conjure nightmarishly beautiful visions. Strong language and explicitly sexual references give Kiernan's stories power and ground them in the visceral world, but may limit the audience to mature adults. VERDICT The author's growing following will enjoy her latest collection.

So, yes. Quite a fine little review (though it did leave me and Spooky laughing about immature adults), and I am grateful for it. If you've not yet ordered the collection, I ask that you please, please do. Because that's how we writers are permitted to pay our bills and continue writing. People buy our books. Thank you. Also, never a bad idea to subscribe to Sirenia Digest, says Herr Platypus.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,044 words on "Houndwife." A normal sort of writing day, so far as word count is concerned. Which means it was a bit of a disappointment after the freakishly high word counts of Saturday and Sunday. Today, I have some overdue proofreading to take care of, and then Spooky and I are going to a matinée, so I'll be finishing the story tomorrow. I think you'll like it (it will be appearing in Sirenia Digest #52 at the end of the month, with an illustration by Vince Locke).


Last night is a little bit of a blur, because I didn't sleep enough. But there was WoW, mostly the Alterac Valley battlefield, of which I have grown unaccountably fond. Never mind that a warlock on a battlefield— even a Level 80 warlock with a dual talent specialization in demonology and destruction —is a bit like a bug on a windshield. And later, there was a mind-bendingly great bit of roleplay in Insilico. Xiang 1.5 ("Victoria") and Xiang 2.0a ("Nanyah-Aste") were reunited in virtual space, though that's probably not a good thing. Then again, I am a pessimist. Thanks to Molly and Daria for the rp, even though it kept me up too late.

Actually, it is a Very Good Thing I stayed up too late, as the torrential downpour we were getting caused the storm windows in the bathroom and my office to spring alarming leaks, and Spooky and I were awake until sometime after five trying to keep everything dry. The landlord will have to attend to this problem very, very soon. I don't build arks.

More coffee...
greygirlbeast: (Barker)
Which is to say, Monsieur Insomnia came back last night. His return was fully expected. I rarely get more than one good night every two weeks or so. Just enough my heart won't explode and rob Monsieur of his sleepless play pretty. Hard rain lat night, and hard rain this morning. We lay awake last night (my insomnia often means Spooky doesn't sleep, either), listening to a Very Loud Drip somewhere just outside the bedroom window. Today, We hear that New England was stricken with a truly terrible storm last night, and today we have flood warnings, but I can only testify to the ferocity of that one drip. Ah, but there is good news, too. Today the world has returned the Caitlín Standard Time (originally, it was called Caitlín Stabilizing Time). I will no longer be one hour early for everything.

No writing yesterday, just a lot of writing about writing. We left the House, venturing Outside in the truly foul weather, all the way to the Athenaeum on Benefit Street (ca 1838), because, sometimes, being there helps jog something loose when my brain has seized up. I took the iBook and sat downstairs and stared at the three sentences I wrote on Friday. I know they have to go, that they are, in fact, preventing me from moving on. They must be destroyed, erased, cut and pasted into a morgue file— whatever —so that I can start over. But I could not summon the requisite courage yesterday. So, instead, I sat and made notes, and more notes, and still more notes, and pretended that was writing. At least the Athenaeum is a very pleasant place to be unable to write, unlike this office. Oh, and Spooky found a copy of The Red Tree under "new fiction," which pleased me tremendously, to have one of my books there in that grand old library where both Poe and Lovecraft studied. I took pictures, mostly upstairs (behind the cut):

13 March 2010 )

Nothing much to last night. We watched the new Caprica, a series that gets better every week. I bit my tongue, and it still hurts. We played WoW, mostly questing in Coldara and the Nexus. I spent some time editing the roleplay transcript from Friday night (which turns out to be twenty-pages long).

Every now and then, someone writes a review that changes, to one degree or another, the way I look at something I've written. These are the best reviews, the ones that make me sit up and say, "Oh, yes, that's what I was trying to say, only, I had no idea I was trying to say that. But I must have been, at least subconsciously, because there it is, plain as fucking day." I received an email containing one such review last night, of The Red Tree. It also described me as "...Algernon Blackwood’s great-granddaughter describing what happened in the forest behind Hill House...", which, of course, made me smile. I'll release the name of the reviewer, and may post a long excerpt from the review later, after I've spoken with its author. It was the second-best thing about yesterday, right after finding a copy of the novel at the Athenaeum.

Finally, before I sign off and deal with those three sentences, I have a question from the comments to yesterday entry. [ profile] jacobluest writes, "Just finished Threshold...I've been working my way 'backwards' through your books...question here if you can answer it: did your concept of the ghouls themselves evolve, or have they remained consistent throughout these stories? I'm trying to figure out if the beings of wire and feather, spindle-legged and scarecrowed, are of the same ilk as Madam Terpsichore. Is Threshold's hitchhiker a Soldier, or a Bailiff? Or has the taxonomy evolved?"

To which I reply, no, the "stick dogs" of Threshold (and "Rats Live on No Evil Star") are not the same sort of beings as the ghouls of the later works. That they both have canine features is coincidence, or convergence, or evidence of some underlying phobia or philia I may have for dog-like things. As for the hitchhiker, again, no, he bears no connections to the Bailiff or the Children of the Cuckoo (such as Soldier, Scarborough Pentecost, or Starling Jane). The hitchhiker was an avatar of the thing below Red Mountain, which was also the thing Dancy fought in Shrove Wood.

And now, I try again....
greygirlbeast: (Humanoid)
I forgot, yesterday, to include a link to the interview I gave to the Brown University Bookstore newsletter.

Rainy and cloudy and cold in Providence today.

Almost all of yesterday was spent on the interview for, which was actually fun, for the most part. I dread the comments it will elicit, though. I can't help but dread that sort of thing, those wild, unfiltered comments. Anyway, I think I'm going to rescind my moratorium on interviews, as I think it's only attracting interviews I want to give. Maybe if I say, sure, I'll give more interviews, I'll give interviews until the proverbial cows come home, people will stop asking for them, and I can get back to the business of just writing. I think I wrote more than two thousand words yesterday, but they don't count, as they were all interview answers. I also went through a mountain of old WoW screencaps for my favorites of my two mains, Shaharrazad and Kalií, which I'm supposed to send back with the interview answers. It's insane how many screencaps I've taken over the last year.

Yesterday, my complimentary copies of Jonathan Strahan's Eclipse Three arrived. The collection looks excellent, and includes a new sf story of mine, "Galápagos." I urge you to pick up a copy. The street date is tomorrow, October 28th. This is one of those anthologies in which I am especially proud to have been included.

We have begun a new round of eBay auctions, still trying to recoup what went out to the IRS a couple of weeks back. We're about halfway to our goal. Please have a look. Thank you.

Last night, Spooky made an excellent apple pie with apples we picked on Sunday.

And, speaking of Sunday, here are photographs of the abandoned house on Old North Road. Spooky has learned that it was built in 1888. I could tell, from the field-stone foundation, that it was very old, but I'd not thought it quite that old. Spooky will be posting more photos of the house, the ones she took in sepia, and I'll link to those tomorrow:

25 October 2009 )
greygirlbeast: (Ellen Ripley 1)
I slept more than eight hours last night. I think I felt too bad to do otherwise. Early this morning, Spooky and I were awakened by a tremendous clap of thunder. A wonderful storm, but I went right back to sleep.

Yesterday was sort of a disaster. I did write, but only 561 words. Two problems prevented me getting any farther. Firstly, I appear to have picked up a cold at the damned doctor's office (one reason I try to avoid doctor's visits). Secondly, I've reached this last third of the story, and suddenly I'm not sure what happens next. "The Sea Troll's Daughter" is a sort of inversion of the storytelling formula derived from Beowulf, but here at the end, I'm lost. I despise trying to be a clever writer, but there's the sense that the ending hinges upon some bit of clever plotting. So...the story's due on Sunday (and this is the very-much-extended deadline), and I'm uncertain how to proceed. It all needs to wrap up in another two or three thousand words.

I spent much of yesterday in bed, listening to Spooky read to me. There just wasn't energy for much else. I feel quite a bit better today. With luck, I'm past the worst of whatever it is I've contracted. I'd really like to stop writing blog entries about illness.

I found something I wrote last year on July 1st, regarding the length of novels, that I thought I'd repost:

This is an old gripe with me, and one that has direct bearing on the writing of The Red Tree. Many of my favourite novels are, in fact, quite short, and certainly far under 100K words. For example, The Haunting of Hill House, Cannery Row, Grendel, The Wasp Factory, The Road, Billy Budd, Turn of the Screw, and Ironweed. The list could go on and on. Great novels, many under 75k, or even 50k, words in length. But I was made to sign a contract that specified a novel that would be 100k words in length. So, rather than allowing the novel to be as long (or, rather, as short) as is needed for the story at hand, I must attempt to push, to pad it, stretch it, or try to convince my publisher to accept a shorter book. And one should never, ever force a story to do anything that is not required of it. There, that's an actual piece of writing advice. I will confess that, being generally disinterested in the ins and outs of publishing, the reasons for this bloating of the American novel escape me. If I had to guess, though, I'd point back to the rise of the blockbuster novel in the 1970s and 1980s. Often, these were thick books. Very thick books. Obscenely, unnecessarily thick books. The example that leaps immediately to mind is Stephen King's It (1986). Could have been half as long, and would have been better for it. But then I still maintain that the original version of The Stand (1978) was far and away better that the longer 1990 publication (which, among other unwise things, "updated" the story from 1980 to 1990). Or look at J.K. Rowling. The books get fatter as the phenom of Harry Potter grows, and that last one is so flabby as to be almost unreadable. Anyway, if I point to the oft-bloated bestsellers as a trend, then maybe I can also suggest that this led to a sort of reader expectation. "Good books are long." Something like that. "I want my money's worth." Along those lines. I can easily imagine many indiscriminate readers buying into (and/or actually creating) this expectation. It becomes, in a consumerist world, a question not of quality, but of quantity. Books have become, in the last twenty or thirty years, unreasonably expensive. So, who wants to spend the same amount of money on a "thin" novel when they can "get their money's worth" with a fat one? Frankly, I think that people thinking of novels the same way they think of pizzas is one of the signs of the Apocalypse.

Regardless, I'm looking at where I am at this stage of
The Red Tree, and I'm guessing that it's a 75k-word novel, maybe. I've written a little more than 20k words at this point, which means I'm getting a feel for its length. Which leaves me with difficult decisions ahead of me. And, I should say, I am not inherently opposed to long novels. Not at all. If they need to be long. Moby Dick, The Lord of the Rings, Watership Down, Dune. It's just that I am opposed to the idea that novels must be long. Bigger is not, we are beginning to see, better. All-you-can-eat-buffets, Hummers and SUVs, those grotesquely vast McMansions, the human population, and the bloated novel...all these things rely on the lie that more is, by definition, better, when, in fact, many times, it's disastrous.

As it turned out, for better or worse, The Red Tree eventually ran to 100,860 words.

Okay, need to try to go get some work done now, says Herr Platypus. But please have a look at the eBay auctions. Thanks!
greygirlbeast: (chi3)
Well, it's not actually raining at this particular fucking moment, but neither is there the sun and warmth we were promised, as late as 2 ayem when I went to bed. Grey skies, and it's a mere 66F. I glanced at the weather for June over at, day by day thus far and it looks like March, not June. Not even here in gloomy ol' Providence.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,035 words on "The Sea Troll's Daughter." It's coming along.

Man, it's really very hard to build any momentum here, in this entry. There's just no enthusiasm. My head is filled with clouds. I think there's mold growing on my iMac.

Last night, we had a really fine pizza from Fellini's on Wickenden Street for Spooky's birthday dinner. Sometime later, I created a new WoW character, a Draenei paladin named Kalií and got her to Level 8 in just a couple of hours. She's on our Secret Server, where Spooky recently created a human rogue named Kittay (I call "it" Kit). Why are we playing Alliance again? I don't really know. Spooky started this. Me, I just tag along. And Kalií is awfully hot. Basically, the Draenei are what you'd get if you dropped a Klingon, a Luxon, a satyr, and a Nebari into a genetic blender. And how can that not be sexy. At least I can find sunny skies in WoW.

Not quite two hours remaining in The Merewife auction. Do please have a look. This is not an item I'll be offering on eBay again anytime soon (and maybe not anytime again ever). Clothbound, out of print since 2005. My thanks to everyone who's bid in the current round of eBay auctions.

I suppose I should go finish my coffee, stare out at the clouds, see what people are twatting over at Twitter (greygirlbeast), maybe hurt myself with a fork.

Oh, almost forgot. Yesterday, [ profile] kiaduran correctly guessed that the micro-excerpt from The Red Tree was making reference to Tennessee William's Suddenly, Last Summer (which, by the way, is referenced throughout the novel).

Postscript (1:35 p.m.): Please, it would be doing me a kindness if you'd not comment that a) you're someplace where the weather is very hot, and so you wish you were here where it's chilly, or b) that you're someplace where it's chilly, and you love it that way. Not the sort of thing I need to hear just now (and I've been hearing it for weeks).

Postscript 2 (1:44 p.m.): Spooky just made our reservations for ReaderCon 20. But I swear to fuck, it's tempting to skip the con, and take a train, or drive, south until we find warmth and spend a couple of days baking and sweating.
greygirlbeast: (Vulcans)
Yes, the rumors are true. Last night, I signed up for Twitter. I am now twatting. Or tweeting. Or twitting. Or what the fuck ever, as greygirlbeast. Yes, it's really me. For now. Yesterday, I began to wonder if I'd become like all those stabilists, back in the '50s and '60s, who still refused to accept the reality of plate tectonics, even when there was finally loads of hard data to support Alfred Wegner's model of continental drift. Yes, that's the way my mind works. Also, I couldn't get the refrain, "One of us! One of us!" out of my head. So, yes. It's really me. Greygirlbeast. Or @greygirlbeast. Or however one writes out their twat address. Please, don't rub it in. Already, the shame burns like hygiene. Oh, Spooky twats as DreamingSquid, in case you're interested. She's been doing it behind my back for weeks.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,947 words (a very, very productive writing day for me) and finished "The Mermaid of the Concrete Ocean," which will be appearing in Sirenia Digest #43. I sent the story to Vince last night, so that he can begin work on an illustration for the piece.

Today, I'm exhausted, and have declared a semi-day off.

However, it seems that the prime instigator in the recent round of severe insomnia may have been my attempt to finish "The Alchemist's Daughter." After I gave up and shelved it on Saturday, I began to sleep again. Let this be a lesson to you, young lady. Sometimes, you have to let go.

Not much else to yesterday. It rained, and it's still raining today. I'm going to petition city hall to decree that Providence shall henceforth be known as Seattle, RI, until such time as summer begins. So, yeah, it rained yesterday.

Spooky has added a few more items to the current eBay auctions. These include a hardback copy of The Merewife chapbook that was originally released with Subterranean Magazine #2, back in 2005. This is almost certainly one of my most collectible books. The hb printing was very small, and quickly sold out. I received only four comp copies, and this is probably the only one I'll ever auction.

We finished reading Andrea Barrett's The Voyage of the Narwhal last night. It's truly an extraordinary novel, and I strongly recommend it. Especially if you have an interest in 19th-Century naturalists, the development of the theory of evolution, and the history of Arctic exploration. It almost makes a curious sort of preface to Dan Simmons' superb The Terror. There's a passage from the last page that I want to put down here, it pleased me so much: Here are the hinges on which the world turns and the limits of the circuits of the stars.

And now I'm going to have coffee with a reclining platypus and a groggy dodo. I mentioned the twatter thing, right?


greygirlbeast: (Default)
Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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