Caitlín R. Kiernan

Still overcast, but warmer today. Oh, wait. I see a glimmer of sunlight.

Yesterday, I wrote 847 words and found THE END of "At the Reef." I don't know why I've been referring to it as "On the Reef," because that's not the title.

Last night, we were planning to go to AS220 to see Brown Bird play (with three other bands), but after the writing, and a bath, and dinner, I discovered I was too tired to get dressed, much less leave the House. It pissed me off. But I can't be surprised. I just wrote two short stories (or vignettes, I'm not sure) in seven days. Not to mention the usual background writerly work. So, anyway, I wound up in bed, too exhausted to do anything but read and moan about being so old and tired. Oh, and then I slept like crap last night.

At least we can still see Brown Bird in November, when they open for Raspuntina's upcoming Providence show. Maybe I won't be exhausted that night. I am truly in love with Brown Bird. I want to marry this band and have their children.

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What did I read? Three more stories from ellen_datlow and nihilistic_kid's Haunted Legends: Carrie Laben's "Face Like a Monkey," Gary A. Braunbeck's "Return to Mariabronn," and John Mantooth's "Shoebox Train Wreck." There is a truly sublime line from the latter. "The dead really don't haunt the living. The living haunt the dead." One of those lines I wish I'd written. But I didn't. I can only admire the skill of the author who did.

This anthology's getting some weird reviews, people complaining because, they say, it purports to be a book of ghost stories, but some of the stories aren't ghost stories. Now, to begin with, Haunted Legends doesn't claim to be exclusively a collection of ghost stories (sensu stricto). The theme of the book is actually urban legends. At the very top of the cover is printed "Local legends and ghost stories..." Note that "local legends" comes first. That said, many of the stories actually are ghost stories, more than I would have expected from an anthology for which the authors were asked to write stories based on urban legends, and not specifically ghost stories. Book reviewers who can't bother to read the books they review need to stop reviewing books.

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Today I wish I could stay in bed. But I need to address the copyeditors queries for "The Collier's Venus (1893)," which will soon appear in ellen_datlow's Naked City anthology. And answer email. And read over and correct "And the Cloud That Took the Form" and "At the Reef." So, yeah. Work. The platypus is a harsh mistress.

Congratulations to William Lindblad of Plano, Texas, who won both my items in the KGB readings benefit auction.

As I write this, the podcast poll stands at 97.3% in favor (143 votes) and 2.7% (4 votes) against. The four who voted against did an admirable job of explaining why they voted against my doing podcasts. Most likely, I'll do one at some point in the next few weeks and see how it goes. And then figure out if I'll make a habit of podcasts.

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Harlan Ellison is selling his first typewriter, a beautiful old Remington. As I said on Facebook yesterday, Harlan has done me many kindnesses and was a tremendous influence on my own work. I consider this typewriter invaluable, but would happily pay five times the $5,000 it has been insured for, if only I had that sort of money. If only I were a wealthy woman. I can only hope it goes to a museum or collector who appreciates its value and will care for it.

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Last night Spooky pontificated on the relative merits of various brands of pumpkin ale. Me, I don't drink the stuff, but she loves it. She decalres Dogfish Head the best, and Wolaver's the second best, but isn't impressed with Smuttynose (despite the cute seal on the bottle). I think she's indifferent towards Saranac. She says, "It's weak."

A quote now from yesterday's entry: Please have a look at the current eBay auctions, as nothing has changed since yesterday. That is, the IRS hasn't decided we don't have to pay taxes, after all. That is, they haven't sent back the check Spooky wrote. Speaking of Spooky, I reiterate, all those cool Halloween thingumies in her Dreaming Squid Dollworks and Sundries Etsy shop will be taken down come November 1st.

Last of all (until the next entry), though I love WoW, I'm sickened by the kids (at least, I hope they're kids) who spew "faggot" and "queer" and "gay" and "homo" over the various chat channels, employing these words as though they are the worst imaginable insults. They swamp the chat channels with this shit. It's almost enough the make me quit the game. I've disabled almost all the chat channels, and I mute the individuals. But still. Are gamers today, as a group, really this homophobic?

What's remarkable is not how much I complain in this journal. It's how little I complain in this journal. The more the years pile up on the far side of -0, the less I see the point in getting myself bent out of shape about this or that or what the hell ever, and the less I see the point in publicly broadcasting my annoyance. That said, I am now going to complain.

What the fuck's with this weird depersonalization/reductionism going on in America (and elsewhere, I expect), whereby almost anything and everything is described as product (plural and singular). I see someone talking about making cookies on television, and they don't say, "We want to make the best cookie we can." No. They say, "We want to make the best product we can." And that product is not to be sold and eaten by people, or even customers, but by consumers. You see it online, with webzines talking about content, not articles, stories, photographs, etc. I see it in publishing, with everything coming down to a matter of how many units have been moved, rather than how many books have been bought. I'm not even sure precisely why this makes me so angry, except somehow it seems to work to devalue everything and everyone. It all becomes only interchangeable bits, with little or no intrinsic value.

And I do think words matter, and are not to be be swapped about willy-nilly. Sure, shorthand can be convenient, but when it stops being shorthand and becomes common speech, meaning is lost.

Yeah, whatever. I mean, nobody much seems to mind, right?

Meanwhile...

They illuminate the land,
and they make me think of you.
What sunk silently to the depths of a mystery?
A clue that only one scientist knew?

Who knew that the sky is now found to contain
Benzene and methane and chalk,
And bloody mud, muddy blood from the sky,
From the sickly sweet wings of Edith's Checker-Spot Butterfly?
They die in the ocean.
Their legs are broken.
The rain slows their flight as it soaks their wings.

In microphone, we'll listen for thunder.
The telephone will dial a number,
To deliver a, a clearer picture of weird wet weather.
This puts all previous discoveries in doubt.
These are the things we have theories about.

Overhead, two sky titans they collide in slow motion.
Then, over the Ice Tongue, fluid flows.
A one thousand foot thick chunk of sediment is exposed.
Your own special home.

A choking, vapor-laced haze obscured by acid rain,
Enveloping everything, on the edge of the Milky Way.

— Rasputina, "A Retinue of Moons"

This thing called story, squirming in my head like an eel. Ever as slippery as an eel. An eel with nipping teeth. And the more I clutch at it, the more easily it slides from my fingers. Or, put another way, no word count for yesterday. Despite a multitude of distractions, I did read through "Bradbury Weather," seeking an entirely new direction for The Dinosaurs of Mars, which I hope I've found. The day will tell.

Vince has finished his illustration for "The Steam Dancer," so today and tomorrow we'll be getting Sirenia Digest #19 ready to go out to subscribers. I think the "Steam Dancer" illustration easily falls into a list of my ten favourite illustrations Vince has done for the digest. So, anyway, expect #19 sometime tomorrow, most likely.

My thanks to Bob Strootman of The Dunwich Whores and Jonathon TeBeest of Rasputina for getting me and Spooky on the guest list for the August 1st Atlanta Rasputina recital. I think the last time we saw Rasputina was November 1st, 2003, at the now sadly defunct Echo Lounge in East Atlanta, so we are looking forward to it. Howard Hughes shall risk the company of other persons and sally forth.

Spooky is looking for her shoes, because she has to go to the post office.

Last night, a good and unremarkable walk about Freedom Park. If anyone should doubt the need for green spaces in cities, hesheit need only stroll past Freedom Park just after sunset on a hot June night. There is always cool, fresh air flowing down towards the surrounding concrete and asphalt, air that must be at least 15F cooler. We did spot one bat, and pondered the near total absence of fireflies in recent years, compared to how extremely common they were back in the '70s when we were kids. Later, we did some Second Life, and by the way — Second Life turns four-years-old today. And I have been a part of it for a mere twenty-four days. Anyway, last night was actually quite exciting. After bumping into sleepycyan (thank you for the marvelous gramophone!) in New Babbage, I was walking in Caledon, Victoria City, enjoying the night air and considering a bit of shopping, when the sudden arrival of an armed Colonel and Lieutenant heralded the coming of that dread black beast that has so terrified the Caledonian countryside of late. The brute charged our group twice, and it's a wonder we escaped with our second lives. I have photos from the encounter, which will be posted at some point. Later still, Spooky and I watched an episode of (speaking of) Firefly ("Out of Gas"), then went to bed about 2 a.m.

And now it's time to make the doughnuts.