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?

Yesterday went well, so far as the writing is concerned. To my great surprise (and relief) it only took me 364 words to reach THE END of "For One Who Has Lost Herself." The "final" word count is 5,860 words. Now I'm stepping away from the piece for a couple of days. I need some perspective before I read through the whole thing, start to finish. I've gone ahead and sent the uncorrected version to Vince so we can start talking about the illustration. I also did a great deal of revision on the pages I wrote on Wednesday. Note, this story isn't erotic, and "pas-en-arrière" is only very subtly so. The pieces just came out that way, and I wasn't about to force sex upon them if they didn't want it. Wouldn't that be a sort of literary rape? Anyway, what I was going to say is that if you've been fence sitting about subscribing to the journal because you were afraid the sex stuff might not be your cuppa, here's a chance for you to try Sirenia Digest relatively sex free.

I've grown to love Klaus Nomi's music, but it inevitably makes me sad, in the way that joyous things can sometimes make me sad if I know too much about the life of the artist who created them. Bittersweet, I guess. I'm listening to Nomi on the iPod as I type this and thinking perhaps I'll switch to the Dresden Dolls.

I did a little more thinking on the avatar thing yesterday. It occurred to me I'd left out a few major ones. Keith Barry, for instance, who, I believe, was a sort of proto-Deacon. Also Jimmy DeSade, and he's an important one. He and Salmagundi may in fact form two halves of a greater compound avatar. Jimmy was my fury at things that have been stolen from me, my guilt at not having done more to prevent those losses, my determination to make the whole world pay (for whatever). There's also Echo from The Dreaming. Echo's obvious. Anyway, yeah, I'm still working all this out.

Spooky just came back from the p.o. with a nice little package from girfan, which included a really beautiful set of British postcards adorned with images of Ice-Age mammals (Smilodon, a woolly rhino, woolly mammoth, cave bear, and Irish elk). They're much too cool to ever actually use.

The mailman brought new books yesterday. That's always a good thing. Kathe Koja's The Blue Mirror, Jeff VanderMeer's City of Saints and Madmen, and Ronald Hutton's Triumph of the Moon.

After downloading Typewriter 2.10, I was seized with the need to find an image of the old Royal I used as a kid. Here's the best one I've found so far:


Royal Model KMM (circa 1938, I think)


I'm giving myself a day-off after five straight writing days. I want to be outside, and I've got to spend the weekend finishing with the Alabaster galleys. We're supposed to reach 82F today, with rain tonight. Hopefully, I really will leave the house and not wind up spending the whole day working on Wikipedia or playing videogames or some other such indoor silliness. Oh, I've noted Poppy's poetry meme, which I think I shall do at some point today or tonight or tomorrow.