![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sometimes, there is no need for words, but and still...
"I would rather be handsome, as he is, for an hour than pretty for a week.”
The humidity is so high in this house I think the walls are about the begin dripping. I believe I can wring water from my socks.
I was dreaming of a life in a city, a filthy 20th-century city that had grown ancient and mean. Cruel, this city. Staircases that rose and descended forever, towards attics that could never be gained, and basements where no one ever dared go. The city, which was rotting, abutted the sea, which was rotten. I swam in water the color of strong tea, and there was a very large shark that swam past me. I photographed it. Among all those decaying tenements there was a sanitarium, or asylum, that seemed to have grown between and through many of the other buildings like a parasitic organism. My head ached, as if my head had always ached. Paranoia. Climbing and descending stairs. The certainty of being pursued, whether pursuers were in evidence or not. NecroNoir. A whole world in dead shades of brown and grey. The camera with the shark photograph on it lost, and a desperate hunt for it, as, somehow, the proof of my sanity rested with the proof of the shark. Windows looking out over sagging rooftops. Never anything to the sky but clouds.
I wish I could remember more, because there was a lot more. But I'm glad I can't remember more.
There's a shark shaped fin
In the water of my dreams.
Alligator screams from the depths there
I'd swim with you there...
---
Yesterday, I wrote 1,894 words and finished "Figurehead," which will appear in Sirenia Digest #67, which should be out on (or before) the 5th of June. When I was done with the story, I sent it to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sovay, who brought up the relevance of passages from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1.125 — 134). I read a lot of Ovid long ago in college, but most of it's only echoes now. Sometimes, in need of inspiration*, I go back to the Metamorphoses (which is likely obvious). Anyway, she pointed me to a passage that was so alike to the theme of "Figurehead" that I felt the unnerving sensation of experiencing inspiration after the fact:
A third generation followed them, of bronze
and more savage by nature, readier with harsh arms,
yet not wicked; of hard iron was the very last.
All at once there broke into the age of baser ore
every wrong — shame and truth and loyalty fled
and in their place came trickery and deceit
and treachery and force and the wicked love of having.
The seaman spread his sails to the winds he did not yet
understand, and what had stood long on high mountains
now tossed as keels on unknown waves...
If you take the digest, you see what I mean. If you don't, you won't.
Last night, we played far too much Rift, fighting an endless series of invasions and rifts outside the Chancel of Labors and Whitefall, as Iron Pine suffered multiple air rifts and invasions by the minions of the dragon Crucia. Then, after Selwyn returned to Meridian, there was some very good rp on the cliffs north of Lakeside, looking out over the sea. Via a very strange turn of events, I find myself, for the first time ever, rping an essentially transgender character. Sort of an Orlando thing going on, only with a Kelari, instead of Tilda Swinton (Selwyn, though, I must say, is at least as hot at Tilda Swinton, even if she's only pixels). It all ended with Selwyn following Celinn across the burning wastes of Droughtlands to the refuge of Lantern Hook...which is essentially a Fremen sietch, straight from the pages of Dune. And I will remind you: We have a guild. Here. And you can play with us. And there's a FREE 7-day trial.
Today, Spooky has to get new tires for the automobile, and I have to write another (this time short) vignette for the digest.
And I leave you with Hubero:
( 29 May 2011 )
* A short, partial list of other authors I often turn to for inspiration: Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde, T. S. Eliot, Lovecraft, Shirley Jackson, Matthew Arnold, W. B. Yeats, Angela Carter, William Gibson, William Blake, Anne Sexton, Joseph Campbell.
I was dreaming of a life in a city, a filthy 20th-century city that had grown ancient and mean. Cruel, this city. Staircases that rose and descended forever, towards attics that could never be gained, and basements where no one ever dared go. The city, which was rotting, abutted the sea, which was rotten. I swam in water the color of strong tea, and there was a very large shark that swam past me. I photographed it. Among all those decaying tenements there was a sanitarium, or asylum, that seemed to have grown between and through many of the other buildings like a parasitic organism. My head ached, as if my head had always ached. Paranoia. Climbing and descending stairs. The certainty of being pursued, whether pursuers were in evidence or not. NecroNoir. A whole world in dead shades of brown and grey. The camera with the shark photograph on it lost, and a desperate hunt for it, as, somehow, the proof of my sanity rested with the proof of the shark. Windows looking out over sagging rooftops. Never anything to the sky but clouds.
I wish I could remember more, because there was a lot more. But I'm glad I can't remember more.
There's a shark shaped fin
In the water of my dreams.
Alligator screams from the depths there
I'd swim with you there...
---
Yesterday, I wrote 1,894 words and finished "Figurehead," which will appear in Sirenia Digest #67, which should be out on (or before) the 5th of June. When I was done with the story, I sent it to
sovay, who brought up the relevance of passages from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1.125 — 134). I read a lot of Ovid long ago in college, but most of it's only echoes now. Sometimes, in need of inspiration*, I go back to the Metamorphoses (which is likely obvious). Anyway, she pointed me to a passage that was so alike to the theme of "Figurehead" that I felt the unnerving sensation of experiencing inspiration after the fact:A third generation followed them, of bronze
and more savage by nature, readier with harsh arms,
yet not wicked; of hard iron was the very last.
All at once there broke into the age of baser ore
every wrong — shame and truth and loyalty fled
and in their place came trickery and deceit
and treachery and force and the wicked love of having.
The seaman spread his sails to the winds he did not yet
understand, and what had stood long on high mountains
now tossed as keels on unknown waves...
If you take the digest, you see what I mean. If you don't, you won't.
Last night, we played far too much Rift, fighting an endless series of invasions and rifts outside the Chancel of Labors and Whitefall, as Iron Pine suffered multiple air rifts and invasions by the minions of the dragon Crucia. Then, after Selwyn returned to Meridian, there was some very good rp on the cliffs north of Lakeside, looking out over the sea. Via a very strange turn of events, I find myself, for the first time ever, rping an essentially transgender character. Sort of an Orlando thing going on, only with a Kelari, instead of Tilda Swinton (Selwyn, though, I must say, is at least as hot at Tilda Swinton, even if she's only pixels). It all ended with Selwyn following Celinn across the burning wastes of Droughtlands to the refuge of Lantern Hook...which is essentially a Fremen sietch, straight from the pages of Dune. And I will remind you: We have a guild. Here. And you can play with us. And there's a FREE 7-day trial.
Today, Spooky has to get new tires for the automobile, and I have to write another (this time short) vignette for the digest.
And I leave you with Hubero:
* A short, partial list of other authors I often turn to for inspiration: Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde, T. S. Eliot, Lovecraft, Shirley Jackson, Matthew Arnold, W. B. Yeats, Angela Carter, William Gibson, William Blake, Anne Sexton, Joseph Campbell.
So far, Spooky has rendered this morning a scene from an unmade David Lynch film. Bobby Vinton and fussing about how I clean out the coffee maker were involved. She checked for fish. After all, there are tins of sardines in the pantry. Oh, and it doesn't help that, last night, someone pointed out to me how much Thom Yorke and Tilda Swinton look alike. It's true.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,428 words on the final chapter of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. A pivotal, culminative scene I could not have written (well) had I not gone to the Blackstone River in the snow on Sunday. But I did go, and so I did write the scene to the best of my ability. And I find that, as I expected, this is essentially a novel without climax. There are revelations strewn here and there, but nothing actually ever coalesces into a climax. It's a novel that begins here and stops there, when Imp believes she's done the best job she'll ever do of telling her "ghost story."
As it stands, the manuscript is 96,158 words long. My contract specifies a novel 100,000 words long. Setting aside for the moment that no one should ever tell an author how long or short a novel has to be, I emailed my editor a week back and told her it might go to 120,000. She asked if I could please keep it to 110,000-115,0000. I did some math, juggled scenes, and replied that I might be able to keep it to 110,000, which made her very happy. So, assuming I can do that, I have about 13,842 words left to go until the more or less arbitrary THE END. I've been writing, on average, 1,200-1,500 words a day, which means I'll likely finish sometime between Friday the 11th and Sunday the 13th. Hardly any time left to go, on a novel that I've been working on. in one way or another, since August 2009.
Also, we proofed "Postcards from the King of Tides" for Two Worlds and In Between. It's a story that still works for me, despite having been written in 1997. I don't think that I'd ever seen how much influence "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" had on the story until yesterday.
For dinner, there was spicy beef shawarma and baba ghannoush.
---
Last night, we finished Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games. Gods, this is a brilliant book. I mean fucking brilliant. Horrifying and sorrowful and poignant and beautiful and strong. Katniss is one of my new favorite literary figures. I'm not going to gush on and on, or risk spoilers, but I will say I was especially impressed at how Collins deftly managed to put us in the mind of someone living in a totalitarian world. There are so many times Katniss Everdeen might have stopped and given the gamemakers or the Capital the middle finger. But she doesn't, even though that's what they do in Big Hollywood movies, because she understands the dire consequences it would have for her and, more importantly, for her family and District 12. She only knows, at this stage, how corrupt and loathsome the world is, and that it may destroy everything it touches. This is how evil men stay in power. And it's impossible not to read this novel and see the Capitol of Panem as the US, and each of the twelve districts (thirteen was obliterated in the late civil war) as all those countries where people live in squalor so that Americans may enjoy an obscenely high standard of living.
---
Gaming consumed far too much of my night. First, Spooky let me use her laptop long enough the level Selwyn to 16. I love the world of Rift so, so much. I love that it awes me, and takes my breath, and frightens me, and that I walk through Meridian and so many people are in character, roleplaying, and so few have inappropriate names (for now, the name police thing is working).
Meanwhile, in that other game, the candy-colored one, Shaharrazad is still grinding away at Loremaster. I've now done 105 out of the 120 Netherstorm quests.
---
Okay, I slept far too late, and now it's time to make the doughnuts. Go to bed at 5 ayem, get up at noon thirty, you must make concessions.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,428 words on the final chapter of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. A pivotal, culminative scene I could not have written (well) had I not gone to the Blackstone River in the snow on Sunday. But I did go, and so I did write the scene to the best of my ability. And I find that, as I expected, this is essentially a novel without climax. There are revelations strewn here and there, but nothing actually ever coalesces into a climax. It's a novel that begins here and stops there, when Imp believes she's done the best job she'll ever do of telling her "ghost story."
As it stands, the manuscript is 96,158 words long. My contract specifies a novel 100,000 words long. Setting aside for the moment that no one should ever tell an author how long or short a novel has to be, I emailed my editor a week back and told her it might go to 120,000. She asked if I could please keep it to 110,000-115,0000. I did some math, juggled scenes, and replied that I might be able to keep it to 110,000, which made her very happy. So, assuming I can do that, I have about 13,842 words left to go until the more or less arbitrary THE END. I've been writing, on average, 1,200-1,500 words a day, which means I'll likely finish sometime between Friday the 11th and Sunday the 13th. Hardly any time left to go, on a novel that I've been working on. in one way or another, since August 2009.
Also, we proofed "Postcards from the King of Tides" for Two Worlds and In Between. It's a story that still works for me, despite having been written in 1997. I don't think that I'd ever seen how much influence "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" had on the story until yesterday.
For dinner, there was spicy beef shawarma and baba ghannoush.
---
Last night, we finished Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games. Gods, this is a brilliant book. I mean fucking brilliant. Horrifying and sorrowful and poignant and beautiful and strong. Katniss is one of my new favorite literary figures. I'm not going to gush on and on, or risk spoilers, but I will say I was especially impressed at how Collins deftly managed to put us in the mind of someone living in a totalitarian world. There are so many times Katniss Everdeen might have stopped and given the gamemakers or the Capital the middle finger. But she doesn't, even though that's what they do in Big Hollywood movies, because she understands the dire consequences it would have for her and, more importantly, for her family and District 12. She only knows, at this stage, how corrupt and loathsome the world is, and that it may destroy everything it touches. This is how evil men stay in power. And it's impossible not to read this novel and see the Capitol of Panem as the US, and each of the twelve districts (thirteen was obliterated in the late civil war) as all those countries where people live in squalor so that Americans may enjoy an obscenely high standard of living.
---
Gaming consumed far too much of my night. First, Spooky let me use her laptop long enough the level Selwyn to 16. I love the world of Rift so, so much. I love that it awes me, and takes my breath, and frightens me, and that I walk through Meridian and so many people are in character, roleplaying, and so few have inappropriate names (for now, the name police thing is working).
Meanwhile, in that other game, the candy-colored one, Shaharrazad is still grinding away at Loremaster. I've now done 105 out of the 120 Netherstorm quests.
---
Okay, I slept far too late, and now it's time to make the doughnuts. Go to bed at 5 ayem, get up at noon thirty, you must make concessions.
anew (rinse, repeat)
Jan. 1st, 2011 01:09 pmHere we are again.
Expect no improvement.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,223 words on "—30—", and I should be able to finish the story today. At the start, I thought it might be something humorous, or at least tongue-in-cheek. But the story's gone to this other place, instead. Too much truth about what it's like for me being a writer. An unseemly amount of truth, I imagine, but there you go. Isn't that my job, to be unseemly?
And, speaking of "—30—", it was pointed out to me yesterday (on Facebook) that, in 2010, Laird Baron published a story titled "—30—". I haven't read much Laird Baron (three stories, to date, I think), so I looked on Amazon. And yes, in his 2010 short-story collection, Occultation, there is, indeed, a story titled "—30—" (original to the collection). At first I felt sort of annoyed and crappy about this, but then Spooky pointed out to me that the final episode of Season Five of The Wire (2008) was titled "—30—", along with a film from 1959, directed by Jack Webb and starring Jack Webb, William Conrad, and Whitney Blake. Then I pointed out to her that two works nominated for the 2010 Hugos shared a title,yuki_onna's novel Palimpsest and Charles Stross' novella "Palimpsest." So, all this said, I've decided not to change the title of the story, as the current title is too perfect.
I suppose I'll post the same sort of list I posted last year on this day, the "How Much Did I Write This Year" list. I sort of have a feeling I may have actually written fewer short stories this year than last (which would be a good thing). The year I only write one short story— one perfect story —I win. So, let's see:
1. "Hydrarguros"
2. "The Eighth Veil"
3. "Persephone Redux (A Fragment)"
4. "Apsinthion"
5. "Houndwife"
6. "Three Months, Three Scenes, With Snow"
7. "Workprint"
8. "Tempest Witch"
9. "Tidal Forces"
10. "The Maltese Unicorn"
11. "The Yellow Alphabet" (in two parts)
12. "Fairy Tale of the Maritime"
13. "A Key to the Castleblakeney Key"
14. "John Four"
15. "And the Cloud That Took the Form"
16. "At the Reef"
17. "The Prayer of Ninety Cats"
I'm not going to count "—30—," because it will have missed being finished in 2010 by one day. Also, I was very pleased this year to see The Red Tree nominated for both the Shirley Jackson and World Fantasy awards, and to have seen The Ammonite Violin & Others on the cover of Publisher's Weekly.
Last night, we did what we always do on New Year's Eve and stayed in. We watched a very peculiar vampire film, Rob Stefaniuk's Suck (2009). There were ups and down. The film features Iggy Pop, Moby (as Beef, the most popular rock star in Buffalo, NY), Alice Cooper, Henry Rollins, and Macolm McDowell. If you've not already guessed, it was a comedy, and the funny was so-so. The best bit of the film (besides Moby) was the much-sexier-dead-than-alive Jessica Paré. And how can you possibly follow a film titled Suck? You watch Constantine over again, drool at Tilda Swinton in angel drag, and marvel how Keanu Reeves was ever cast in the film (or any film, for that matter). He mutters his way through the entire film, as if to make up for his inability to act. I always think there's something off with the voice track, until I realize Keanu is the only one mumbling. So, yeah...that was last night.
Today, clinging to some meager vestige of tradition, I'll make black-eyed peas, collards, mac and cheese, and cornbread.
In summation, 2010 was quite a bit better than 2009. Which is to say, it was, all in all, tolerable (though the first few months were spectacularly awful). I'll hope that 2011 may actually be a good year. I don't think I've had one of those since...oh, never mind.
Expect no improvement.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,223 words on "—30—", and I should be able to finish the story today. At the start, I thought it might be something humorous, or at least tongue-in-cheek. But the story's gone to this other place, instead. Too much truth about what it's like for me being a writer. An unseemly amount of truth, I imagine, but there you go. Isn't that my job, to be unseemly?
And, speaking of "—30—", it was pointed out to me yesterday (on Facebook) that, in 2010, Laird Baron published a story titled "—30—". I haven't read much Laird Baron (three stories, to date, I think), so I looked on Amazon. And yes, in his 2010 short-story collection, Occultation, there is, indeed, a story titled "—30—" (original to the collection). At first I felt sort of annoyed and crappy about this, but then Spooky pointed out to me that the final episode of Season Five of The Wire (2008) was titled "—30—", along with a film from 1959, directed by Jack Webb and starring Jack Webb, William Conrad, and Whitney Blake. Then I pointed out to her that two works nominated for the 2010 Hugos shared a title,
yuki_onna's novel Palimpsest and Charles Stross' novella "Palimpsest." So, all this said, I've decided not to change the title of the story, as the current title is too perfect.I suppose I'll post the same sort of list I posted last year on this day, the "How Much Did I Write This Year" list. I sort of have a feeling I may have actually written fewer short stories this year than last (which would be a good thing). The year I only write one short story— one perfect story —I win. So, let's see:
1. "Hydrarguros"
2. "The Eighth Veil"
3. "Persephone Redux (A Fragment)"
4. "Apsinthion"
5. "Houndwife"
6. "Three Months, Three Scenes, With Snow"
7. "Workprint"
8. "Tempest Witch"
9. "Tidal Forces"
10. "The Maltese Unicorn"
11. "The Yellow Alphabet" (in two parts)
12. "Fairy Tale of the Maritime"
13. "A Key to the Castleblakeney Key"
14. "John Four"
15. "And the Cloud That Took the Form"
16. "At the Reef"
17. "The Prayer of Ninety Cats"
I'm not going to count "—30—," because it will have missed being finished in 2010 by one day. Also, I was very pleased this year to see The Red Tree nominated for both the Shirley Jackson and World Fantasy awards, and to have seen The Ammonite Violin & Others on the cover of Publisher's Weekly.
Last night, we did what we always do on New Year's Eve and stayed in. We watched a very peculiar vampire film, Rob Stefaniuk's Suck (2009). There were ups and down. The film features Iggy Pop, Moby (as Beef, the most popular rock star in Buffalo, NY), Alice Cooper, Henry Rollins, and Macolm McDowell. If you've not already guessed, it was a comedy, and the funny was so-so. The best bit of the film (besides Moby) was the much-sexier-dead-than-alive Jessica Paré. And how can you possibly follow a film titled Suck? You watch Constantine over again, drool at Tilda Swinton in angel drag, and marvel how Keanu Reeves was ever cast in the film (or any film, for that matter). He mutters his way through the entire film, as if to make up for his inability to act. I always think there's something off with the voice track, until I realize Keanu is the only one mumbling. So, yeah...that was last night.
Today, clinging to some meager vestige of tradition, I'll make black-eyed peas, collards, mac and cheese, and cornbread.
In summation, 2010 was quite a bit better than 2009. Which is to say, it was, all in all, tolerable (though the first few months were spectacularly awful). I'll hope that 2011 may actually be a good year. I don't think I've had one of those since...oh, never mind.
After the Relapse
Jan. 24th, 2010 12:57 pm1. Yes, I'm still using the somewhat pathetic crutch of numbered items in my entry. The platypus has given hisherits permission, so it's cool. One day soon— or so I'm told by the voices that speak to me in the dead of night when sleep won't come —my mind will be clear again and I can dispense with these numbers.
2. I am much, much better. However, Spooky contracted the Dread Bug from me, and now she's sick as the proverbial dog.
3. On Friday, thinking I was "well," and feeling a bit of cabin fever, I unwisely convinced Spooky to take me to a matinée screening of Scott Stewart's Legion. Unwise for three reasons: 1) I was actually still sick, and Spooky was just getting sick; 2) It was cold as a midwinter night on Hoth out there; and 3) Scott Stewart's Legion is the lousiest excuse for a movie I've paid to see in a very, very long time. As we were leaving the theatre, I wanted to say, "That's the worst movie about angels I've ever seen." Sadly, that's probably not true, so I didn't say it. I cannot recall an instance of noisy teenagers making fun of a movie I was trying to watch not pissing me off, but there were three who kept cracking wise during Legion, and that's probably the only thing that got me through the film. Spooky almost fell asleep, repeatedly. I'm assuming that Paul Bettany played the archangel Micheal because Vin Diesel was busy with a game of AD&D. Regardless, Bettany delivers what has to stand as one of the most wooden performances in the history of bad movies about angels. The guy that played Gabriel was even worse. Pissed-off angels should not make one chortle. Someone needed to have taken Kevin Durand aside and shown him Tilda Swinton's portrayal of Gabriel, as an example of a creepy, threatful Gabriel done well. Or, hey, they could have shown Durand a bit of Christopher Walken. Or both. In the entire cast, only Charles S. Dutton and Dennis Quaid even tried to act. I think The End of the World, With Red Necks would have made a better title. All in all, it's really a shame, because I was rather intrigued by the film's premise. But instead of taking that premise anywhere worth going, we get rednecks (I mentioned that), the redneck Baby Jesus Mark II, a redneck truck stop, a nonsensical and inconsistent plot, and angels that seemed a lot more like a cross between death knights and gladiators than angels of any stripe. Maybe that's how rednecks imagine angels. I don't know. Like, okay...you're a fucking angel, right? You're fucking Gabriel, to be precise. You do not need some huge-ass Klingon dagger to kill a lousy human. I think that's actually in the Old Testament somewhere. And never mind the machine guns. Just skip this one. Don't even wait for the DVD, unless you're going to zap it in the microwave. Mr. Stewart, if you are reading this, please drop the theological claptrap and go back to doing visual effects for movies that don't suck, made by actual directors.
4. I should be writing about what a wonderful novel is Peter Straub's A Dark Matter, but I refuse to speak at length about such a fine book in the same entry that I speak at length of a shit stain of a movie like Legion, so that's going to have to wait until tomorrow.
5. I have to try to write today, or these deadlines are going to chew me up and shit me out.
6. To my great pleasure, I actually found some very, very good Second Life roleplay last night. My thanks to "Hibiki Ochs" and "Omika Pearl" and whoever built the Insilico sim, because I was just about the ditch SL for the fifteenth time.* Also, Insilico brought a bright spot to an otherwise terribly bad day.
Okay...I let my coffee get cold. Crap.
*The love affair was short lived, Insilico quickly proving to be as disappointing as the rest of SL, despite the shiny candy coating.
2. I am much, much better. However, Spooky contracted the Dread Bug from me, and now she's sick as the proverbial dog.
3. On Friday, thinking I was "well," and feeling a bit of cabin fever, I unwisely convinced Spooky to take me to a matinée screening of Scott Stewart's Legion. Unwise for three reasons: 1) I was actually still sick, and Spooky was just getting sick; 2) It was cold as a midwinter night on Hoth out there; and 3) Scott Stewart's Legion is the lousiest excuse for a movie I've paid to see in a very, very long time. As we were leaving the theatre, I wanted to say, "That's the worst movie about angels I've ever seen." Sadly, that's probably not true, so I didn't say it. I cannot recall an instance of noisy teenagers making fun of a movie I was trying to watch not pissing me off, but there were three who kept cracking wise during Legion, and that's probably the only thing that got me through the film. Spooky almost fell asleep, repeatedly. I'm assuming that Paul Bettany played the archangel Micheal because Vin Diesel was busy with a game of AD&D. Regardless, Bettany delivers what has to stand as one of the most wooden performances in the history of bad movies about angels. The guy that played Gabriel was even worse. Pissed-off angels should not make one chortle. Someone needed to have taken Kevin Durand aside and shown him Tilda Swinton's portrayal of Gabriel, as an example of a creepy, threatful Gabriel done well. Or, hey, they could have shown Durand a bit of Christopher Walken. Or both. In the entire cast, only Charles S. Dutton and Dennis Quaid even tried to act. I think The End of the World, With Red Necks would have made a better title. All in all, it's really a shame, because I was rather intrigued by the film's premise. But instead of taking that premise anywhere worth going, we get rednecks (I mentioned that), the redneck Baby Jesus Mark II, a redneck truck stop, a nonsensical and inconsistent plot, and angels that seemed a lot more like a cross between death knights and gladiators than angels of any stripe. Maybe that's how rednecks imagine angels. I don't know. Like, okay...you're a fucking angel, right? You're fucking Gabriel, to be precise. You do not need some huge-ass Klingon dagger to kill a lousy human. I think that's actually in the Old Testament somewhere. And never mind the machine guns. Just skip this one. Don't even wait for the DVD, unless you're going to zap it in the microwave. Mr. Stewart, if you are reading this, please drop the theological claptrap and go back to doing visual effects for movies that don't suck, made by actual directors.
4. I should be writing about what a wonderful novel is Peter Straub's A Dark Matter, but I refuse to speak at length about such a fine book in the same entry that I speak at length of a shit stain of a movie like Legion, so that's going to have to wait until tomorrow.
5. I have to try to write today, or these deadlines are going to chew me up and shit me out.
6. To my great pleasure, I actually found some very, very good Second Life roleplay last night. My thanks to "Hibiki Ochs" and "Omika Pearl" and whoever built the Insilico sim, because I was just about the ditch SL for the fifteenth time.* Also, Insilico brought a bright spot to an otherwise terribly bad day.
Okay...I let my coffee get cold. Crap.
*The love affair was short lived, Insilico quickly proving to be as disappointing as the rest of SL, despite the shiny candy coating.
It's sunny this morning, but we had a wild night here in Providence. A storm swept up from the southwest, and the Hurricane Barrier was closed for the first time since we moved here from Atlanta. It seems that the storm combined with the full-moon tides has produced some alarming seas. Today, we're driving down to Narragansett and Point Judith to see the waves (we also have to stop by Spooky's parents' place for eggs).
This year, I have so-far entirely neglected to mention the arrival of Jethro Tull Season. Traditionally, it begins the day after Thanksgiving, and it helps me survive the winter and, most especially, the horrors of Xmas.
Yesterday I worked on the "Sanderlings" chapbook, which will come FREE with the numbered edition of The Ammonite Violin & Others (Subterranean Press, June 2010). Mostly, I worked on the cover (for newcomers, I often do the covers of my subpress chapbooks) and came up with something I like. I emailed it to Bill Schafer, and he approved. Also, I wrote an afterword for the chapbook. Now, "Sanderlings" itself just needs a bit of tweaking, mostly line edits, and I have to get a couple of other images ready, and then it will all go to subpress and be out of my hands. And speaking of The Ammonite Violin & Others, last night Richard Kirk sent me a pencil sketch, an early study for his cover for the collection. I'm thinking, what a beautiful tattoo this would make:
Copyright © 2009 by Richard A. Rirk, All rights reserved.
Also, I finished reading David Quammen's Monster of God: The Man-Eating Predator in the Jungles of History and the Mind. Research for the Next Novel, and, for the most part, an excellent (and heartbreaking) book. And I signed eBay books so Spooky could send them out to auction winners.
Oh, and I finished the crossword puzzle in the December National Geographic. These little details should be remembered.
Last night, we watched Darnell Martin's Cadillac Records (2008), which was quite good. I was especially taken with Eamonn Walker's performance as Howlin' Wolf. What with the trip to Boston and all, I forgot to mention that, Monday night, we watched Erick Zonca's Julia (not to be confused with either Peter Straub's novel or Fred Zinnemann's 1977 film, both of the same name). I'd only been alerted to the existence of this film the day before, bysovay, and then Spooky discovered we could stream it from Netflix. Tilda Swinton gives one of the most brilliant (and unexpected) performances of her career. So, yeah, lots of good movies lately.
This year, I have so-far entirely neglected to mention the arrival of Jethro Tull Season. Traditionally, it begins the day after Thanksgiving, and it helps me survive the winter and, most especially, the horrors of Xmas.
Yesterday I worked on the "Sanderlings" chapbook, which will come FREE with the numbered edition of The Ammonite Violin & Others (Subterranean Press, June 2010). Mostly, I worked on the cover (for newcomers, I often do the covers of my subpress chapbooks) and came up with something I like. I emailed it to Bill Schafer, and he approved. Also, I wrote an afterword for the chapbook. Now, "Sanderlings" itself just needs a bit of tweaking, mostly line edits, and I have to get a couple of other images ready, and then it will all go to subpress and be out of my hands. And speaking of The Ammonite Violin & Others, last night Richard Kirk sent me a pencil sketch, an early study for his cover for the collection. I'm thinking, what a beautiful tattoo this would make:
Copyright © 2009 by Richard A. Rirk, All rights reserved.
Also, I finished reading David Quammen's Monster of God: The Man-Eating Predator in the Jungles of History and the Mind. Research for the Next Novel, and, for the most part, an excellent (and heartbreaking) book. And I signed eBay books so Spooky could send them out to auction winners.
Oh, and I finished the crossword puzzle in the December National Geographic. These little details should be remembered.
Last night, we watched Darnell Martin's Cadillac Records (2008), which was quite good. I was especially taken with Eamonn Walker's performance as Howlin' Wolf. What with the trip to Boston and all, I forgot to mention that, Monday night, we watched Erick Zonca's Julia (not to be confused with either Peter Straub's novel or Fred Zinnemann's 1977 film, both of the same name). I'd only been alerted to the existence of this film the day before, by
sovay, and then Spooky discovered we could stream it from Netflix. Tilda Swinton gives one of the most brilliant (and unexpected) performances of her career. So, yeah, lots of good movies lately.
Somehow, even though I got up at 10:30 ayem, I'm now completely behind. And I need to get the corrected text of the chapbook to accompany A is for Alien off to subpress before I start writing.
Yesterday, I did 1,318 words on Chapter Six of The Red Tree.
My thanks to Geoffrey for sending me the July 14th issue of Publisher's Weekly, which contains my "signature review" of Gene Wolfe's forthcoming sf novel, An Evil Guest. I had not yet seen the review in print.
Last night, we saw the Coens' Burn After Reading at the Avon on Thayer Street. I loved it, but my thoughts are presently too disorganized to say just exactly why. It's almost a horror film, this movie, the way that Fargo was almost a horror film, an exploration of idiocy that leads one to think just a little too much about the ubiquitous nature of idiocy. I'm pretty sure Brad Pitt was channeling Spongebob. John Malkovich was delightful, and yeah, so was Tilda Swinton (but, you know, Tilda Swinton could make a fucking Burger King commercial and I'd probably pronounce it deserving of an Oscar). I love the way that the Coens can make smooth-as-fifty-year-old-scotch George Clooney twitchy. Anyway, yes, marvelous film.
Please have a look at the new eBay auctions.
Last night, in World of Warcrack, Merricat, the night-elf warrior, reached Level 15, and halfway to 16. Got me a fancy new scimitar. Yesh. Heads will roll....
Oh, an interesting exchange with my editor regarding editing and copyediting. Penguin is trying to switch over to doing it all electronically, using the "track changes" feature in MS Word. I said that I was uncomfortable going this route, and, besides, I had no idea how to do it and no interest in learning how. I explained that I like holding actual pages while editing, and then having the copyedited manuscripts for archival purposes. Anne was very understanding, and I apologized for being a Luddite, and she said we can edit The Red Tree the old-fashioned way. I don't know how long I can get away with this, but I sincerely hope it's quite a while longer yet.
Yesterday, I did 1,318 words on Chapter Six of The Red Tree.
My thanks to Geoffrey for sending me the July 14th issue of Publisher's Weekly, which contains my "signature review" of Gene Wolfe's forthcoming sf novel, An Evil Guest. I had not yet seen the review in print.
Last night, we saw the Coens' Burn After Reading at the Avon on Thayer Street. I loved it, but my thoughts are presently too disorganized to say just exactly why. It's almost a horror film, this movie, the way that Fargo was almost a horror film, an exploration of idiocy that leads one to think just a little too much about the ubiquitous nature of idiocy. I'm pretty sure Brad Pitt was channeling Spongebob. John Malkovich was delightful, and yeah, so was Tilda Swinton (but, you know, Tilda Swinton could make a fucking Burger King commercial and I'd probably pronounce it deserving of an Oscar). I love the way that the Coens can make smooth-as-fifty-year-old-scotch George Clooney twitchy. Anyway, yes, marvelous film.
Please have a look at the new eBay auctions.
Last night, in World of Warcrack, Merricat, the night-elf warrior, reached Level 15, and halfway to 16. Got me a fancy new scimitar. Yesh. Heads will roll....
Oh, an interesting exchange with my editor regarding editing and copyediting. Penguin is trying to switch over to doing it all electronically, using the "track changes" feature in MS Word. I said that I was uncomfortable going this route, and, besides, I had no idea how to do it and no interest in learning how. I explained that I like holding actual pages while editing, and then having the copyedited manuscripts for archival purposes. Anne was very understanding, and I apologized for being a Luddite, and she said we can edit The Red Tree the old-fashioned way. I don't know how long I can get away with this, but I sincerely hope it's quite a while longer yet.
Addendum: New eBay, etc.
Feb. 25th, 2008 10:08 pmJust something quick. We've begun two new eBay auctions earmarked specifically for the medical bills: a copy of the Japanese translation of the Beowoulf novelization (with a free copy of the UK edition) and a copy of the Tails of Tales of Pain and Wonder chapbook, which I am auctioning before the release of the collection, with Subterranean Press' kind permission. Please have a look at these. Thanks.
Also, thanks torobyn_ma for this link to a rather thoughtful, and sometimes hilarious, summation of the '08 Oscar ceremony @ Salon.com (written by Cintra Wilson):
In a year where most of the actresses were shielded from their own regrettable taste by professional stylists like Rachel Zoe, best supporting actress winner Tilda Swinton, at least, was bravely and refreshingly fashion-forward enough to look bonkers. She wore no makeup and what looked like a velvet Isamu Noguchi coffee table, and spoke in insouciant, artistic free verse about Oscar's naked buttocks in the great weirdo-artiste tradition of Dustin Hoffman.
That was pretty much it for iconoclasm during the evening. They really should learn to invite Björk every year.
Oh, and:
This Oscars was noteworthy, though, if only because it featured the worst musical interludes since the Great Debbie Allen Interpretive Dance Meltdown of 1999. The Disney movie "Enchanted" somehow had three completely unsingable, perversely idiotic, overproduced, melody-free songs nominated. Amy Adams sang the first of these: a frantically upbeat anthem about being vermin and doing menial labor -- kind of a "Whistle While You Work" number that had suspiciously happy housewife/sweatshop/totalitarian overtones.
Also, thanks to
robyn_ma for this link to a rather thoughtful, and sometimes hilarious, summation of the '08 Oscar ceremony @ Salon.com (written by Cintra Wilson):In a year where most of the actresses were shielded from their own regrettable taste by professional stylists like Rachel Zoe, best supporting actress winner Tilda Swinton, at least, was bravely and refreshingly fashion-forward enough to look bonkers. She wore no makeup and what looked like a velvet Isamu Noguchi coffee table, and spoke in insouciant, artistic free verse about Oscar's naked buttocks in the great weirdo-artiste tradition of Dustin Hoffman.
That was pretty much it for iconoclasm during the evening. They really should learn to invite Björk every year.
Oh, and:
This Oscars was noteworthy, though, if only because it featured the worst musical interludes since the Great Debbie Allen Interpretive Dance Meltdown of 1999. The Disney movie "Enchanted" somehow had three completely unsingable, perversely idiotic, overproduced, melody-free songs nominated. Amy Adams sang the first of these: a frantically upbeat anthem about being vermin and doing menial labor -- kind of a "Whistle While You Work" number that had suspiciously happy housewife/sweatshop/totalitarian overtones.
Sunlight and dandelions...
Feb. 25th, 2008 12:13 pmThis interminable bug seems to have gone at last, but has left behind a persistent, wracking cough. The less I talk, the less I cough. But, I have always been prone to these coughs after illness, and Altoids help. Oh, and not only have they gone and changed the tins again, they've taken out the artificial flavouring and the glucose syrup, which are good changes (that have affected the flavour not at all). But, yeah, cough, cough. Oh, and I stink like Tiger Balm, because I'm learning it's not so much the fits as the damage I manage to do to myself during the fits. There was a smallish seizure night before last, and I pulled a muscle in my neck, which made yesterday all sorts of fun.
But, there is sun coming in the office window, and it looks like spring, even though another cold front is about to bring rain and freezing air down upon us.
Yesterday was maddening, workwise. Having finished the piece that is not called "Untitled 33," I sat here trying to find a second piece for Sirenia Digest #27. I thought and thought and thought, and prowled through books of Symbolist painting, and talked with Spooky, and looked at the most deviant internet porn I could find (I have become quite skilled at the latter), and all to no avail. Nothing would come, nothing that would make an erotic vignette and not a full-blown erotic short story (which I presently haven't the time to write). However, two things did occur to me:
1) My writing is giving future generations of feminist literary theorists loads of stuff to demonise. Even though I myself am a feminist, they will vilify it as blatantly misogynistic (though it's not), indicating some deep-seated insecurity and self-hatred on my part, probably arising from our society's persecution of lesbians and those who fall outside normative gender states. That I am a lesbian who falls outside normative gender states will matter not at all. They'll do it, anyway. The way Bram Dijkstra used Idols of Perversity to demonise the Pre-Raphaelites, for example. My erotica will be at the centre of this, because, you know, no self-respecting woman would ever write these things, no woman who respects other women. That I am a witch, they'll warp that around somehow, as well, perhaps citing my assertion that a Divine Androgyne must, logically, be as important to Wicca as the Goddess.
2) I got to thinking, wouldn't it be incredibly cool if I could offer Sirenia Digest subscribers multimedia content each month? I still have a lot of thinking to do on this one, but it may be a whole lot more feasible in the near future than it currently is. Basically, I would invite graphic artists, photographers, makers of short films, etc. the opportunity to showcase their material on the Sirenia Digest website, and to perhaps even adapt some of the vignettes into other media. For my part, though I am a writer, the best erotica is almost always visual, and it's a project I would love to work on. It would come to subscribers at no added charge.
So, yeah that was the productive part of yesterday. I will try again today to find a second vignette for #27. But I also have to call my agent, and that always seems to derail the day.
As for the Academy Awards last night, not a bad 80th Oscars, if you ask me. I actually got six of my wishes. And I was utterly delighted that "Best Supporting Actress" went to Tilda Swinton, who, last night, was even more ravishingly androgynous than usual. Though I still maintain that There Will Be Blood was the best American film of 2007, I am perfectly happy with No Country For Old Men, with seeing Cormac McCarthy at the Oscars, and seeing the Coens get Oscars #s 3, 4, and 5. I was surprised and very happy to see Best Art Direction go to Sweeney Todd and Best Visual Effects go to The Golden Compass. My only real regret is that The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford received no award. I will say that the three songs we had to endure from Enchanted left me with no desire whatsoever to see the film. I loved the Gaultier worn by Marion Cotillard and the Georges Chakra worn by Helen Mirran, but my favourite dress was the Lanvin worn by Tilda Swinton. I think I'd give a "worst dressed" notice to Diablo Cody, who apparently thought it necessary to try to bolster her street cred as an ex-stripper by dressing like one. Anyway, yes, a wonderful Oscars ceremony.
Okay. Coffee, I am ready for you.
But, there is sun coming in the office window, and it looks like spring, even though another cold front is about to bring rain and freezing air down upon us.
Yesterday was maddening, workwise. Having finished the piece that is not called "Untitled 33," I sat here trying to find a second piece for Sirenia Digest #27. I thought and thought and thought, and prowled through books of Symbolist painting, and talked with Spooky, and looked at the most deviant internet porn I could find (I have become quite skilled at the latter), and all to no avail. Nothing would come, nothing that would make an erotic vignette and not a full-blown erotic short story (which I presently haven't the time to write). However, two things did occur to me:
1) My writing is giving future generations of feminist literary theorists loads of stuff to demonise. Even though I myself am a feminist, they will vilify it as blatantly misogynistic (though it's not), indicating some deep-seated insecurity and self-hatred on my part, probably arising from our society's persecution of lesbians and those who fall outside normative gender states. That I am a lesbian who falls outside normative gender states will matter not at all. They'll do it, anyway. The way Bram Dijkstra used Idols of Perversity to demonise the Pre-Raphaelites, for example. My erotica will be at the centre of this, because, you know, no self-respecting woman would ever write these things, no woman who respects other women. That I am a witch, they'll warp that around somehow, as well, perhaps citing my assertion that a Divine Androgyne must, logically, be as important to Wicca as the Goddess.
2) I got to thinking, wouldn't it be incredibly cool if I could offer Sirenia Digest subscribers multimedia content each month? I still have a lot of thinking to do on this one, but it may be a whole lot more feasible in the near future than it currently is. Basically, I would invite graphic artists, photographers, makers of short films, etc. the opportunity to showcase their material on the Sirenia Digest website, and to perhaps even adapt some of the vignettes into other media. For my part, though I am a writer, the best erotica is almost always visual, and it's a project I would love to work on. It would come to subscribers at no added charge.
So, yeah that was the productive part of yesterday. I will try again today to find a second vignette for #27. But I also have to call my agent, and that always seems to derail the day.
As for the Academy Awards last night, not a bad 80th Oscars, if you ask me. I actually got six of my wishes. And I was utterly delighted that "Best Supporting Actress" went to Tilda Swinton, who, last night, was even more ravishingly androgynous than usual. Though I still maintain that There Will Be Blood was the best American film of 2007, I am perfectly happy with No Country For Old Men, with seeing Cormac McCarthy at the Oscars, and seeing the Coens get Oscars #s 3, 4, and 5. I was surprised and very happy to see Best Art Direction go to Sweeney Todd and Best Visual Effects go to The Golden Compass. My only real regret is that The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford received no award. I will say that the three songs we had to endure from Enchanted left me with no desire whatsoever to see the film. I loved the Gaultier worn by Marion Cotillard and the Georges Chakra worn by Helen Mirran, but my favourite dress was the Lanvin worn by Tilda Swinton. I think I'd give a "worst dressed" notice to Diablo Cody, who apparently thought it necessary to try to bolster her street cred as an ex-stripper by dressing like one. Anyway, yes, a wonderful Oscars ceremony.
Okay. Coffee, I am ready for you.
Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?
Nov. 5th, 2006 02:02 pmGrateful thanks to everyone who said that yes, they could see the test entry. I think I had to make a new entry to prime to pump, so to speak. The test entry seemed to fix everything. It's reassuring to know that the CEBS actually works. And on a Sunday morning, at that.
I think I was one of maybe seven people who were actually able to make an entry on LJ yesterday. If you want to read it (hawks, crows, Terry Gilliam's Tideland, spider bites, writerly isolation), just click here. I'll be watching it for comments today. Clearly, someone at Six Apart needs to buy Frank the Goat a muzzle.
Anyway...
It's colder today than yesterday. Still, we took a walk before I settled into my freezing office to bang away at the keyboard all day. Saw one of the hawks, soaring over North Ave., looking for pigeons or starlings or rats. Not much else. Spooky contemplated going down to Grandma Luke's for a fried banana and peanut butter sandwich, which almost sounded too good to pass up. My right shoe kept coming untied.
We ended up at the Fernbank Museum of Natural History late yesterday afternoon, because Spooky's been wanting to see the Roman exhibition. I wish someone could have warned us it was "girl scout day." I'm just glad it wasn't "boy scout day." I said hi to the dinosaurs and we saw an IMAX film, Deep Sea. Then we had to go to the pet store, because Hubero was out of cat litter. And then we went to our favorite Thai place, because we were both in need of comfort food and the spicy basil rice bowl does the trick every time. On the way, we spotted a beautiful, huge white full moon rising over the tree tops and a few low purple-pink clouds. I checked the clock in the car; 6:41 (CaST). It was not a bad day.
Back home, we watched Terry Zwigoff's Art School Confidential and Steve Buscemi's Lonesome Jim. I liked the former, though not quite as much as I thought I would (I think I've ODed on irony), but was a bit disappointed with the latter. It just wasn't nearly as good as Tree's Lounge, and I'd hoped it would be. It didn't help that Casey Affleck acted as though he was in a high-school play. But it was oddly consoling to discover that I do not actually think Liv Tyler's hot. It was just the ears. That was a huge relief, even if I'm not sure why. After the movies, a little past midnight, I called Poppy (docbrite), because she'd left a message on my poor neglected answering thingy. I'd not talked to her in ages, and we wound up talking until 2:30 a.m. (CaST). Assorted topics of conversations included, but were not limited to, getting old, health insurance (and the lack thereof), cats, spider bites, tattoos, sex, lit agents, editors, reviewers, New Orleans, Realtors® (snork), Daughter of Hounds and Dead Shrimp Blues, wikipedia, MySpace, kids these days, how much I hate writing novels (but will always have to write them, anyway), Athens (GA), and self medication. We'd have talked longer, but my cellphone was overheating and I making my ear hurt, and I fully expected it to explode and bury shards of molten plastic in my brain.
Then we went to bed and Spooky read to me from House of Leaves until 3:30 (CaST), and I do not seem able to get it through my head that this is not the book to read Right Before Sleep.
Tilda Swinton, who rocks my world (even without ears), is 46 today.
Okay. There are words that must be written and no one to write them but me. Oh, and there's this photo (behind the cut), because the pink house (see 6/2/06 05:23 pm), the one that was being used to pimp that idiotic Paris Hilton show, was unpinked a couple of months ago and I keep forgetting to post a photo. Spooky got this one on our walk today. I don't go in for the whole southwestern sunset thing they have going down, but still, it's better than frelling Barbie pink.
( Pink No More )
I think I was one of maybe seven people who were actually able to make an entry on LJ yesterday. If you want to read it (hawks, crows, Terry Gilliam's Tideland, spider bites, writerly isolation), just click here. I'll be watching it for comments today. Clearly, someone at Six Apart needs to buy Frank the Goat a muzzle.
Anyway...
It's colder today than yesterday. Still, we took a walk before I settled into my freezing office to bang away at the keyboard all day. Saw one of the hawks, soaring over North Ave., looking for pigeons or starlings or rats. Not much else. Spooky contemplated going down to Grandma Luke's for a fried banana and peanut butter sandwich, which almost sounded too good to pass up. My right shoe kept coming untied.
We ended up at the Fernbank Museum of Natural History late yesterday afternoon, because Spooky's been wanting to see the Roman exhibition. I wish someone could have warned us it was "girl scout day." I'm just glad it wasn't "boy scout day." I said hi to the dinosaurs and we saw an IMAX film, Deep Sea. Then we had to go to the pet store, because Hubero was out of cat litter. And then we went to our favorite Thai place, because we were both in need of comfort food and the spicy basil rice bowl does the trick every time. On the way, we spotted a beautiful, huge white full moon rising over the tree tops and a few low purple-pink clouds. I checked the clock in the car; 6:41 (CaST). It was not a bad day.
Back home, we watched Terry Zwigoff's Art School Confidential and Steve Buscemi's Lonesome Jim. I liked the former, though not quite as much as I thought I would (I think I've ODed on irony), but was a bit disappointed with the latter. It just wasn't nearly as good as Tree's Lounge, and I'd hoped it would be. It didn't help that Casey Affleck acted as though he was in a high-school play. But it was oddly consoling to discover that I do not actually think Liv Tyler's hot. It was just the ears. That was a huge relief, even if I'm not sure why. After the movies, a little past midnight, I called Poppy (
docbrite), because she'd left a message on my poor neglected answering thingy. I'd not talked to her in ages, and we wound up talking until 2:30 a.m. (CaST). Assorted topics of conversations included, but were not limited to, getting old, health insurance (and the lack thereof), cats, spider bites, tattoos, sex, lit agents, editors, reviewers, New Orleans, Realtors® (snork), Daughter of Hounds and Dead Shrimp Blues, wikipedia, MySpace, kids these days, how much I hate writing novels (but will always have to write them, anyway), Athens (GA), and self medication. We'd have talked longer, but my cellphone was overheating and I making my ear hurt, and I fully expected it to explode and bury shards of molten plastic in my brain.Then we went to bed and Spooky read to me from House of Leaves until 3:30 (CaST), and I do not seem able to get it through my head that this is not the book to read Right Before Sleep.
Tilda Swinton, who rocks my world (even without ears), is 46 today.
Okay. There are words that must be written and no one to write them but me. Oh, and there's this photo (behind the cut), because the pink house (see 6/2/06 05:23 pm), the one that was being used to pimp that idiotic Paris Hilton show, was unpinked a couple of months ago and I keep forgetting to post a photo. Spooky got this one on our walk today. I don't go in for the whole southwestern sunset thing they have going down, but still, it's better than frelling Barbie pink.
Tags:
