Caitlín R. Kiernan

Yesterday I did "only" 1,528 words, and I felt guilty for not having written more. But I made my goal, and the Word Bank even gained 28 words. Also, we proofed the galleys of "Zero Summer" for Subterranean Magazine #6. And then there were e-mails and phone calls. And I finally crawled away down the hall and hid in a tub of very hot water.

Speaking of words/per day, matociquala was remarking on "the fast writer/slow writer debate," which I did not even know, previously, was a debate. Some people write fast. Some people write slowly. But apparently there are those who would be prescriptive in these matters. That is, those who believe slower writers are more likely to produce good books than those who write fast. And I will admit, I do tend to be skeptical of writers who turn out two or three novels a year. A big part of that's envy, though. I freely admit to that. I am a very, very slow writer. That's why this whole 1,500 words per/day every day thing is such a big deal for me. Until 2002, my average was 500 words/per day. Since then, it's been 1,000. But, as for how long it takes me to write novels, factoring in research, stewing in my skull time, inexplicable stalls, and such like, they usually take me at least a year or two. Daughter of Hounds needed more than two years. Low Red Moon was written in only about eight months. Threshold took forever (something like three or four years), and I think Silk required at least 27 months. It takes me as long to write a novel as the novel requires. But, yes, generally, I am a very slow writer. And rarely am I good for more than four or five hours writing on any given day. There are numerous reasons for this. Having only one functional eye. What some have described as "sentence-level writing" (doesn't everyone do it one sentence at a time? One word at a time?). The fact that I really do not enjoy writing. And so forth. Frankly, if someone told me I had to write two or three novels in a year, I'd probably murder them on the spot. But if there are people who wish to do such a thing, well, that's hisherits business. I will say that some of my best short stories have been written in only a few days, though some others have taken many weeks. Things take time, the time that they require. And though I am slow, a veritable writing tortoise, I should not be prescriptive, as hares are quite nice, too. But, I think, one should not ever think this is a race, the writing. It is not a race. Speed is mostly irrelevant, unless we are to concern ourselves solely with matters of deadlines imposed and finances and other things that actually have very little to do with writing.

Last night we finished Mitch Cullin's Tideland. What a wonderful, wonderful novel. A few observations. Terry Gilliam's movie, despite a marked difference of POV, is amazingly true to the book. And Cullin is the rare sort of author who pulls me in so completely that I am not distracted by that aforementioned problem, the magician watching another magician, trying to figure out how it's done or remarking how I could do it so much better. I doubt I shall ever be half this good, and I know it, so I am content to be swept along...which, I think, is the whole point of a novel. There are some beautiful details in the novel that didn't make it into the film, such as those describing "the Hundred-Year Ocean." Brendan Fletcher did such a marvelous job in Gilliam's film of bringing the character of Dickens to life that only that portion of the novel seemed in any way less amazing than the screen adaptation. And it has occurred to me that there are some interesting parallels between Tideland and another of my favourite novels, Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle.

Okay. Gotta make the words.

I think Frank the Goat has been at the mainframe again.

I woke up cold this morning, feeling the autumn in all my bones, aching, stiff, half dreamsick. Feeling -20, instead of only -02. This house can be a dark hole. A very cold dark hole. So we ate breakfast, then got dressed and had a good walk out to Freedom Park. Lots of sun, but not much warmth in it. It was good to get the muscles moving, though, the blood pumping, to drive the shadows out of my head. There were three huge crows in the park, and we watched the local trio of red-tailed hawks riding the thermals over L5P. A male and female and one of their offspring. I said something to Spooky about hawks being monogamous and mating for life. The trees are brilliant. Winter is much too near.

Thanks for all the comments the last couple of days. They've been appreciated. I don't know much about how anyone else writes, but I do it a state of isolation. I think I pretty much assume it's this way for most writers, though it may well not be. You sit alone in a room all day and stare at a computer screen and talk to yourself, telling yourself stories you hope others will want to hear.

Also, my thanks to David Kirkpatrick (corucia), for Volume One (1935-1936) of The Komplete Kolor "Krazy Kat." I've been wanting to read these for quite some time, so it was a wonderful gift. Also, thanks to Setsuled (setsuled) for the new Yoshitako Amano icon.

Byron met us yesterday at Midtown Cinema for the 5:15 (CaST) matinee of Terry Gilliam's Tideland. I was going to post about the film last night, but thought perhaps I needed more time to digest what I'd seen. Now, I think I may need much more time to digest. But this I will say. I found it brilliant, beautiful, terrible, heart-breaking, wild, and deeply disturbing. And, as Gilliam explains before the story begins, innocent. Profoundly innocent. I think, in the end, the film's innocence is why it's pissing so many people off. More on that later, perhaps. Afterwards, I tried to imagine this film pitched via "high concept" to some studio executive: Alice in Wonderland meets The Texas Chainsaw Massacre; We Have Always Lived in the Castle meets The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe; and so on, and so forth. I could probably think of a hundred these combos, but Tideland is entirely immune to such absurd acts of reductionism. It is what it is. Which is quite a lot more than I think most people are prepared for. Do not go to this movie expecting something which is merely whimsical and pretty and maybe a tad surreal. That's like taking mescaline and only expecting to get stoned. Come at this film the wrong way and it will fuck you up. It'll probably fuck you up anyway. Wow.

I have another spider bite. A few inches up from my left knee. It was red and hot and angry last night, a little better today. I should probably put a compress on it. I don't know why these guys always get me and never Spooky.

Oh, and there was absinthe yesterday, for the first time in a while, because it seemed the only right thing to do.