Caitlín R. Kiernan

The heat seems to have come to stay, at least until September. In this house, in this heat, it is no right season to be trying to write. I can hardly think. We had a few comfortable hours early this morning, say two a.m. until dawn. The thermostat even dropped all the way to 80F.

Yesterday was, so far as writing goes, just short of a complete loss. Mostly, the lack of sleep the night before is to blame. Rarely does insomnia make me sick, but it did yesterday. So, I sat here, dissatisfied with everything I'd written on Thursday and Friday, but full in the knowledge that my dissatisfaction was at least partly irrational. Maybe if I'd known it was completely irrational, things might have been easier. I rewrote. I bemoaned. I wrote paragraphs and threw them out. This is not the route to getting The New Novel written. This is not the way I write.

I finally gave up about five, and crawled off to the sweltering bedroom. It was too hot to be in there, much less sleep. Spooky came in and put a wet washcloth on the back of my neck and I dozed for half an hour.

Today has to be better.

---

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions, especially the Salammbô T-shirt. Also, Spooky's selling off a couple of pairs of shoes she never wears anymore (because they make her feet hurt), shoes she's hardly worn. They are lovely shoes. You can see them in her LJ, squid_soup.

My thanks to Bill at subpress for sending me a copy of Peter Straub's Skylark, the expanded text of A Dark Matter. It arrived yesterday, and is a beautiful, beautiful book.

---

What else was there to yesterday? A cold dinner that I barely had the appetite to eat. The new National Geographic came in the mail. I realized there wasn't a Wikipedia article for the archaeocete whale genus Pontogeneus, so, after dinner, I wrote one. It had been a year or so since the last time I wrote a paleo' entry for Wikipedia. It was too hot to read, so we watched John Maybury's Love Is the Devil: Study for a Portrait of Francis Bacon (1998), with Derek Jacobi and Daniel Craig (and Tilda Swinton!). We watched more episodes from Season Two of 24. Just before sleep, I finished Chapter Two of The Rise and Fall of the Cthulhu Mythos.

And that was yesterday.

And here it is, the first day of Spring, the Vernal Equinox, Ostara. And I greet it with great relief, that another winter has come and gone.

There was very little to yesterday, except the continued reading and correcting and editing and rewriting of Silk. Many commas and hyphens were added, a few compounderations were hewn asunder. Some atrocious phrasing was made less so. In the end, we did three chapters, though I'd hoped to do four, and this morning the Zokutou page thingy looks like this:

225 / 354 (63.6%)

Going over the novel again after all these years, I remain perplexed that so many readers found the characters so loathsome. Sure, Robin and Byron are a bit much, too goth for their own good or anybody elses, but all in all, I still find the people inhabiting Silk as sympathetic as I ever did, and I do not waste my time trying to write characters with whom I cannot sympathize. I would not know how to do that. But I've heard it from so many people. This person, for example, in an Amazon.com "review":

If you are really into super-confusing, creepy books with self-pitying, annoying, wear-it-on-their sleeve outcast characters-- this might be just the tale for you.

Or this "review":

I had a hard time sympathizing with these pathetic, soullessly conformist waifs.

Or this one:

What bothers me is that I find the characters so enormously unappealing. They're all self-absorbed 20somethings proudly and defiantly wrapped up in their own pain and dysfunction. I couldn't find any sympathy in me, much less empathy, for any of them, not even Spyder, who was horribly abused as a child. Every time Daria lost her temper over her junky boyfriend I wanted to slap her. Every time Spyder evaded the questions of those who wanted to love and help her with vague mumblings I wanted to strangle her. These are people who enjoy wallowing in their pain.

Even now, a decade after the book was first published, fourteen years after I started writing it, these reactions simply mystify me. Much of Silk is awfully close to autobiography, and I was writing about a time and places and people I had known and been. And though I am now someone very, very different, I still do not understand these reactions, this hostility. For me, Silk is a novel about people doing the best they can do, given their unfortunate situations and histories. Yes, many of them are broken and insane and self-destructive, and they usually do not behave like or have the priorities of sensible, down-to-earth, workin' class folks or property-flipping yuppies. But, for the most part, they are true. And that is my first and most important job as a writer, to write true people. Maybe what rubbed these people the wrong way was that I didn't turn Silk into some sort of tiresome morality tale or a cautionary screed: Be careful, or you'll end up like these losers. Anyway...

I did find one extremely annoying error in the book yesterday, one that has made it into print three times now. I refer to the black widows Spyder's keeping as "Latrodectus geomstricus," thereby managing to make both a taxonomic and a spelling blunder. There is no such beast as Latrodectus geomstricus. Latrodectus geometricus, on the other hand, is the brown widow. But. The Southern black widow, which would have been the species in Spyder's care, is Latrodectus mactans. I am at a loss to explain how I made this error in the first place, much less how it was carried on through three editions. People pick on my characters when they ought to pick on my taxonomy.

Like I said, not much else to yesterday. I was up until 1:30 a.m. writing Wikipedia articles, one on Judeasaurus and one on the squamate clade Varanoidea, because that's just the sort of self-absorbed, dysfunctional, pathetic dork I am.

I'll not go into the all the details of why I wound up in a doctor's office yesterday afternoon. I think, all in all, it's a little too embarrassing. There were some amusing moments, though, such as when I asked the receptionist if this doctor saw only humans or if she also treated real people. You must say a thing like that with a perfectly straight face and insist upon an answer. Anyway, the verdict was "exhaustion" and "stress," "dehydration" and "lack of sleep" and, most amusingly, "you're not a kid anymore, you know." I almost kicked her for that last one. So, yes, this day will get an O as well, but it's okay. I have a note from the doctor. And I have paid far too much to be told what I knew already, that working myself half to death will not make up for anything.

Yesterday, my comp boxes of Daughter of Hounds and Threshold both arrived.

And my thanks to Elizabeth Bear (matociquala), who e-mailed last night to let me know there's a very good review of Daughter of Hounds in the January issue of Locus. I do not take Locus, so I did not know. I still have not seen the full review, but here's the bit Bear sent me, with which I am quite pleased:

This is possibly Kiernan's best novel yet, a thrilling page-turner that also features the depth, complexity, and unflinching willingness to contemplate the dark that we've come to expect from her books.

Oh, and there's a Sirenia Digest update. Sonya Taaffe's new piece will be appearing in the January issue, and December will now include both "The Voyeur in the House of Glass" and "Metamorphosis B." The issue's laid out and ready to be PDFed. At this point, I'm just waiting on Vince's illustration.

Not much else to be said for yesterday. I had a nap. Thai for dinner. I dropped by Border's on Ponce, but if they have either Daughter of Hounds or Threshold, they have not yet put them on the shelves. I did some Wikipedia last night, transforming the stub on Brachytrachelopan mesai into an actual article. I renewed my Society of Vertebrate Paleontology membership.

I'd like to see Alfonso Cuarón's Children of Men this afternoon, but a) I'm supposed to be resting and b) it's only showing way the frell over at the Regal Atlantic Station Stadium 16 (theatres should not be referred to as stadiums), out west of I-75/85. And c), I have this fear that a perfectly dystopian sf film will be ruined with a "hopeful" ending in which humanity might not be doomed after all.

I'm just gonna go lie down now. Maybe ingest a liquid of some sort. Try not to stress out. Because, you know, I'm not a kid anymore.

Spooky's posted some "in progress" photos of the Barker in her LJ. I am eagerly awaiting his completion, though Iggy and Sweet William understandably do not share in my enthusiasm.

Yesterday evening, looking again at the considerable expense of traveling to Rhode Island by either train or plane, we finally chose automobile. Even with the work that the car will likely require before the trip, it's still going to cost us much less than two round-trip tickets to Providence. Sure, it's a longish road trip, but we've both done it repeatedly in the past. So, there you go. I shall very much miss the train, but this makes everything much easier. It also means I don't have to worry about raising quite so much money via eBay to offset the expenses of the trip. And it leaves more money to spend on the important things, like Del's Lemonade. We sat up until three-thirty this morning, looking at the road atlas, plotting our route, too excited to sleep.

I've noted, belatedly, that there's now an active, ongoing discussion of To Charles Fort, With Love taking place over at species_of_one, which is cool. I do hope more people will take part. There have been some interesting observations. Check it out.

As it turns out, sovay and I will be collaborating on a vignette for Sirenia Digest 9 (August '06), the sf piece that she'd originally planned to write solo. It'll be interesting, as I've not collaborated with anyone since Poppy and I wrote "Night Story 1973" in 2001, and I'm looking forward to it.

All day, I've been wondering how long it will be before the Immaculate Order of the Falling Sky turns up on Wikipedia...

First, thanks to dsgood for pointing me to czarina69 and an explanation for the abrupt withdrawal of Paul T. Riddell (aka sclerotic_rings) from LJ. He will be missed, as a faithful reporter of marvelous things. But. The good news is that he's going back to school to pursue a science degree. Which, of course, is a very, very good thing, and, for my part, I applaud his decision wholeheartedly.

Ken Cory writes:

One story I wish were more available is your collaboration with Poppy Z. Brite “Night Story 1976” (is that year right?). As far as I know it’s only appeared in the small editions of From Weird and Distant Shores. I read it aloud on Halloween at the Dusk ‘til Dawn scary story reading at Borderlands Books here in San Francisco, and everybody just loved it.

Close. "Night Story 1973." And anyone else who'd like to read the story, but doesn't have access to From Weird and Distant Shores, can find it reprinted in The Last Pentacle of the Sun: Writings in Support of the West Memphis Three, edited by M. W. Anderson and Brett Alexander Savory (Arsenal Pulp Press, 2004). "Night Story 1973" remains a personal favourite of mine, as well, and I'm very pleased to hear of the Halloween reading at Borderlands. Anyway, yes, I urge anyone looking for the story to pick up a copy of The Last Pentacle of the Sun, which also includes work by Clive Barker, Peter Straub, Brian Hodge, Elizabeth Massie, Margaret Cho, and many, many others. Poppy and I have no intentions of permitting the story to be reprinted elsewhere anytime in the foreseeable future.

The last twenty-four hours are sort of a dreary mush. Well, the last forty-eight, really. But I thought I'd write down a few things here. About the best that can be said for today is that the sun's setting. I did very little housework, though I did get rid of Sophie's litter box and packed up her toys and some other of her belongings for storage. Stuff that will go the the next cat, who won't be coming to live with us until at least December. I finished a Wikipedia article which I began yesterday, on the Cretaceous swordfish Protosphyraena. Spooky and I braved the sun (which came back today) and took many of the cans of uneaten cat food to Junkman's Daughter at L5P, for the three kitties waiting there to be adopted. Oh, and some catnip, too. The rest of the cat food is prescription, intended for diabetic cats, and that will be going to a local shelter. Nothing is wasted. I detest waste. Anyway, yes, the sun was brutal. I also went to Crystal Blue and Soul Kiss, looking for a thank-you card for Sophie's vet, but found nothing suitable. I might have found something at Charis Books, but by then I was too hot and grumpy and just wanted to go home. We got slices from Fellini's for dinner. Neither of us has felt much like cooking.

Last night, we watched Sydney Pollack's excellent film, This Property Is Condemned, adapted from a one-act by Tennessee Williams. It falls just shy of being a great film because of a sometimes anachronistic score and dated cinematography that occasionally reminds you you're watching a film made in 1966, instead of experiencing a story set in the 1930s. Still, it's very, very good. I watched the middle of Anthony Mann's Side Street (1950), then went to bed.

I spent part of the day getting the eBay auctions going again. Right now, there's the trade paperback of Silk (for less than cover price), The Five of Cups, and the trade and limited editions of The Dry Salvages (and the price on the trade edition has been reduced). I've also put up a copy of Candles for Elizabeth, which may be the last copy I will ever auction. I only have a couple more remaining. Just click here to peruse our wares. Please bid if you are interested and able. The proceeds from these auctions will be used to cover Sophie's cremation, as well as the recent repairs to Spooky's iBook and our train fare to Rhode Island this summer. I'll be listing more books sometime tomorrow. If there's something in particular you're looking for but don't see listed, just write me (at greygirlbeast[at]gmail[dot]com) and ask. Also, Spooky will be auctioning Snapdragon, just as soon as she finishes with her clothes.

Right. That's all for now. I think I'll read a bit. Maybe a skillful combination of the "pams" and alcohol can help me focus just enough to do that.

The words came back yesterday. I did 1,058 words on "The Black Alphabet." That would be T-V. With luck, I'll finish it today. Then it'll be time to figure out what the next Sirenia Digest vignette will be. Perhaps it will feature Paris Hilton and a big pink house and a few thousand hungry mutant leeches. Hmmm. Anyway, I also have an alarming number of things that I need to get done for subpress, some of which are things that should have been done weeks ago. Illustrations for "Night" (to appear in a future issue of Subterranean magazine), a cover for the "Highway 97" chapbook, & etc. Oh, and the galleys for "Highway 97" arrived yesterday and need proofing. Meanwhile, the CEM for Daughter of Hounds should be falling on my head any damn day now.

Argh.

My thanks to Chris Seggerman (elmocho) for putting me wise to The Platypus of Doom and Other Nihilists (behind the cut). Now, I must track that book down.

( Platypus of Doom )

My platypus says that itshehe isn't a nihilist, only a keen observer of the inevitable.

Yesterday, Spooky discovered Swedish Fish AquaLife, which includes not only the usual fish, but blue raspberry dolphins, grape pufferfish, lemon starfish, and orange sea horses. This made for the perfect unhealthy snack while we spent the evening watching all four episodes of Dr. Who: The Horror of Fang Rock (1977). Oh, and I've been at the Wikipedia again the past couple of days. An article on the Patagonian theropod Quilmesaurus, as well as work on a number of other articles — Ichthyornis, Plioplatecarpinae, Claosaurus, & etc. It helps to pass the time.

Meanwhile, President Asshole has called for a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage. The last time I checked on his approval rating, back in May, it was scraping bottom at 31%, with a 65% disapproval rating. I don't know what it's at now, but I suppose he thinks that picking on queers can't hurt. Wasn't the object of the Constitution to make us more free, not allow fascist Xtian bigots to make us less so? Nar'eth says the lot of them can kiss her big grey dyke ass. I'm inclined to agree. Wasn't stealing the 2004 election enough for these sorry sons of bitches? Just checking.

Now, W is for...

I think I pretty much sidestepped St. Patrick's Day this year. I just didn't feel quite up to all the drunken green foolishness of shamrocks and Guinness and leprechauns. I hung my Irish flag on the front porch, listened to Rum Sodomy & the Lash, and then went on about my day.

I'm sorry if this entry seems a little off kilter. A sort of a ghost came to me by e-mail this morning, and my head's mostly somewhere else and somewhen else at the moment. Lea, if you should be reading this, I got the message, and I'll reply soon, I promise.

What else about yesterday? Spooky and I took a walk through Freedom Park and an adjoining neighborhood. Everything is greening. Every year, winter drags my mind to the edge of the pit, and every year these colours of spring drag it back again. It's like my soul's tide (if I believed in souls). I stand between summer and winter, pulled this way and that. It was a wide swing this year. Anyway, the walk was good. There was the familiar joke about mockingbirds being the iPods of the avian world. Out there beneath the spring sky, I wanted to run and scream and roll in the weeds, but I didn't. We found this weird plastic eyeball thing in the grass. Later, on the way to the movie, we spotted an enormous raptor of some sort, something I wasn't able to ID, soaring low over the treetops. There are an amazing number of predatory birds in this part of Atlanta, what with all the parks and the Fernbank nature area so near. We get lots of owls and hawks. After the movie, we grabbed a quick, late dinner from the hot bar at Whole Foods, then headed home. I spent the evening with Wikipedia, writing an entry for the nodosaurid ankylosaurs Silvisaurus and Pawpawsaurus. Then we watched the first two eps of the new Dr. Who on the skiffy channel. I adore Christopher Eccleston, ever since Revenger's Tragedy (2002), if not before. I think I like the new series. There's something nicely 'scapey about it, and, well, there's Christopher Eccleston. That moment in the first ep, when whatzername keeps asking him who he is, and he tells her how he can feel the Earth racing through space and that's who he is, that was particularly nice.

Today, I will make my best effort to finish the new vignette. Also, I've promised Bill at subpress that I'd get the illos. for the "Night" chapbook done this week. So I've got that, as well.

Spooky picked up Nick Cave and Warren Ellis' soundtrack to The Proposition the other day, but I've not had a chance to hear it yet. And speaking of music, They Might Be Giants will be performing at The Variety Playhouse on May 3rd, which makes me somewhat happy.

After talking with my agent again, I've decided that I won't be taking down the Amazon plog, I just won't be posting anything more than occasional news and updates to it. Nothing I'll ever care if they use for their own devices. As for MySpace, yesterday was the last entry I'll be mirroring there, again largely because of their truly unreasonable TOS. I'll leave up what's already up. Taking it down wouldn't benefit me from a copyright standpoint. And if you ask, I'll still friend you. I'll drop by now and then, to get my fill of bad photos of drunken teenagers and those garish, animated ads ("Kiss Brad Pitt and Win a New Toilet Plunger!!!!"). But I'm pulling my tendrils in again. LJ and Blogger are enough for me.

My passport just expired, which is mostly significant because it's my only form of photo ID. I don't drive, being blind in my left eye and all, so I don't have a driver's license. I don't have one of those non-driver ID things, either. The passport's it. I have the urge not to have it renewed. It's not a very practical urge, as I do on occasion need some laminated scrap of paper to prove to someone that I am in fact me. I need it, I just don't want it anymore. Perhaps it's a part of the whole chimera/parahuman thing, or perhaps it's just another way I feel I could distance myself even further from Bush's America. Having to hold some piece of paper or plastic to prove your identity has never set well with me. My identity changes too often, and it's really no one's business but my own.

Okay. The platypus grows impatient. Please have a look at the eBay auctions. The gas company won't take fairie gold, either. Especially, have a look at the "choose your own letter" Frog Toes and Tentacles auction. I want to see a bidding war, people. Spooky and I make these cozy's by hand, by the sweat of our brows and the pricking of our fingers and all that dren. Thank you.

Asleep too late. Awake too early. By ten thirty this morning, I'd finished a Wikipedia entry for the Chinese ankylosaurid Tienzhenosaurus. But I feel awake. Am I live or is this Memorex? Last night, as we were climbing into bed, I was extolling the wonders and virtues of Wikipedia to Spooky, and she looked at me and said in a somewhat motherly voice, "Well, that's nice, just as long as it doesn't start getting in the way of your work." And I said, "Yes, Mom." She didn't kill me. But I was having a nasty recollection of my mother going on about this thing or that thing or some other all-consuming passion of my teenage years. Reading. My volunteer work at the Red Mountain Museum. Dating. All consuming passions were all fine and good so long as they didn't interfere with school. Of course, they always did, because school held about as much interest for me as...an apt comparison eludes me at the moment. Anyway, yeah, Wikipedia has become a fascination, but, fortunately, I have Spooky here watching over my shoulder to be sure I keep my priorties in order. Yesterday, I only made two entries, for the ankylosaurs Mymoorapelta and "Denversaurus" (the latter being a junior synonym for Edmontonia).

Yesterday was another detail sort of day. E-mails to editors. Vince sent me two sketches for "Untitled 20," and I had to choose one or the other, though I loved them both. I think I chose the best one. I'm thinking I could draw more subscribers to Sirenia Digest if it were photo-illustrated, though the cost would likely be prohibitive. I made a short entry to my Amazon "plog," posting the cover for Alabaster. I'm actually in sort of a weird and frustrating place right now, workwise. Sirenia Digest #4 is pretty much done. I have no short-story deadlines and no short stories that are nagging to be written. The editorial letter on Daughter of Hounds could come next week, or it could come a month from now. So. I'm not quite sure what to do with myself at the moment. Perhaps I'll begin a new vignette for #5 today and get a head-start, so to speak. I've been thinking a lot about fairies. We'll see. We always do.

We had a very long walk yesterday. I feel as though I'm beginning to work off the wage of the winter's inactivity. First we stopped by Videodrome to return Walk the Line, then headed on up North Avenue NE towards the western end of Freedom Park. Oh, here's a photo of Videodrome, Atlanta coolest DVD source (though if your still stuck in the '80s and are talking strictly VHS, I'd direct you to Movies Worth Seeing). I talk about the place so frequently, I figured maybe I should include a photo, which I took yesterday as we were leaving:



I kinda think Videodrome was once a service station. Anyway, we took Ralph McGill Blvd. NE up towards the park, admiring old houses and old oaks and tulip trees and flowers and sidewalk fossils and such. Then we headed back down Williams Mill Rd. NE. It was a beautiful day, the sun hot against my skin, and a good long walk. I sweated!

I was very pleased with the season finale of Battlestar Galactica last night. I thought the one-year-ahead jump cut was marvelous, and now I shall grind my teeth until October and Season 3. Seeing Baltar's debauchery and the miserable conditions on New Caprica, I couldn't help but be reminded of the lyrics to Public Image's "Bad Life" ("Well, that's life./Bad, bad, bad life./Well, that's life./This is what you want./This is what you get.") I love a cliffhanger that leaves everyone well and truly frelled. Of course, I was also thinking about how Bonnie Hammer tried to blame the "unfinished" nature of Farscape at the time of its cancellation on "too many cliffhangers." In fact, watching BSG, no matter how much its won me over, it also makes me miss Farscape all the more. Another of Bonnie Hammer's absurd claims about Farscape was that it wasn't friendly to new viewers coming in late, because the story was too complex. And the same's not true of BSG? Bologna, I say.

Spooky wants to walk me...er, I mean go for a walk, so I should wrap this up. Later, kiddos.

My head is everywhere this morning, all at once. I spent too much of yesterday being angry about Bush's $3 billion cut to the NASA budget, but the anger's still here with me today. Numerous space science programmes have been delayed, so that he can a) continue to fund his hostile take-over of Iraq and b) ape Kennedy by funneling money into...questionable...efforts to land men on the moon and Mars. To date, the war has cost U.S. taxpayers in excess of $244 billion (click here for a more precise number based on congressional appropriations), and now many of NASA's most vital projects will be indefinitely delayed. To quote the New York Times:

Among the casualties in the budget, released last month, are efforts to look for habitable planets and perhaps life elsewhere in the galaxy, an investigation of the dark energy that seems to be ripping the universe apart, bringing a sample of Mars back to Earth and exploring for life under the ice of Jupiter's moon Europa — as well as numerous smaller programs and individual research projects that astronomers say are the wellsprings of new science and new scientists.

But, hey, it's only science.

These are only some of the most important questions humans will ever ask, after all. Nothing we can't do without.

So, yeah, that, and I've begun to reconsider moving more towards science fiction, away from dark fantasy, because, near as I can tell, much of sf today has its head buried head between its buttocks, more concerned with attempts at predicting the future, being socially relevant, and looking academically respectable than simply producing good sf. I don't give a rat's fanny about the frelling Singularity, the one that, likely as not, is about as much a part of our future as flying cars and world peace. I want to write what Poppy calls "ripping good space yarns" and the technofetishists be damned if they think what I'm doing isn't "serious" sf. On top of this, I've got some screed hammering about inside my crowded skull about readers who want writers to hold their hands through a story, readers who cannot tolerate mystery and wonder, but prefer exposition and "satisfaction." What the hell is all this satisfaction crap, anyway? "I did not find this story satisfying." So the hell what? It's not my job as an author to satisfy anyone but myself. That's why art and masturbation have so much in common. I know this is a sore spot with a lot of readers these days (thank you again, reader-response theory), and a lot of writers trip all over themselves trying to keep readers happy. I just can't do it. Even if I believed it was advisable or Right, I wouldn't know where to begin. Here's a good example:

Consider "Bradbury Weather," which I personally take to be my best sf story thus far. In it, Mars is populated by women and only a very small number of sterile men. The story is told in first person (a voice I've only recently become acquainted with). Now, I see someone complaining that they weren't "satisfied" by the story, and one reason is that the reader never learns precisely why there are no men on Mars. Now, thing is, odd though it may strike you that Mars doesn't need women after all, it's fairly irrelevant to the story. It's history, and not history that directly pertains to the story. Since I've chosen a first-person narrative for "Bradbury Weather," I've also chosen to create an epistolary narrative, sensu lato. I do understand that there are readers and writers who don't quite grasp this is what all fpn's amount to, and therein, I think, lies part of our problem. A woman named Dorry has chosen, for reasons which we do not know, to write down an account of her search for her lover, who has become part of an alien cult. That there are no men on Mars (except the sterile few in the cult) is not something that pertains to the story she's telling. Therefore, it would be unnatural, intrusive, and entirely artificial for me to force her to cough up this bit of data for the satisfaction of my readers. I believe (and this seems obvious to me) that when one chooses to write a fpn one has chosen to give the whole story over to characterization. "Bradbury Weather" is the monologue of the central character, and to her, the absence of men is a day-to-day reality, as is parthenogenic human reproduction and a thousand other things which no doubt seem damn peculiar to the reader. But she's telling her story, the story about her search for Sailor Li, her story about the Fenrir cult, and the absence of men is not a part of the story. So, I can't tell it, and I can't make her tell, because she wouldn't frelling do that. I don't do infodumps.

Isn't the general provenance of science fiction to elicit wonder and cause the readers to think and question? Aren't these things more important and desirable than tying up all the loose ends for imagination-challenged readers who have no apparent interest in coming away from a story with a sense of mystery and problems their minds can freely work at for some time to come?

I wish I could discuss these things without getting angry. No, that's a lie. I wish I didn't have to discuss these things at all.

Yesterday...what about yesterday. I tried to begin the vignette. I kept my date with the fairy, and, as always, she was fickle. She let my mind wander in terrible and wondrous places, but she didn't lead me to The Beginning. Hopefully, she'll take me there today. But, in truth, she has as little regard for my desires and needs as I seem to have for the "satisfaction" of people who think my fiction is written for them. I reread a considerable portion of McNally and Florescu's In Search of Dracula and studied maps of the Carpathians. Finally, about 5 p.m., I set it all aside, meaning to write a Wikipedia entry on the basal tyrannosauroid Guanlong wucaii, only to discover someone had beat me to it. So, I resolved that I would write an entry on the first new dinosaur taxon I came across in whichever issue of the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology I happened to first select. That turned out to be Hungarosaurus tormai, an ankylosaur from the Transdanubian Range in Hungary, and there I was back in "the land beyond the forest." I shall call it synchronicity, or perhaps the merest sort of meaningful coincidence, for lack of some other word. Later, after dinner, Spooky read me the first two chapters of Dracula, and I fell asleep fairly early, by two o'clock, I think, and, surprisingly, there wasn't a single dream of vampires or boyars or imperiled English solicitors. Go figure.