greygirlbeast: (Default)
Not a good morning, this. Instead, the sort of morning you just have to keep moving through. Not because there might be something better on the other side, but because the only other option is to stop moving. And somewhere along the winding course of my life, the irrational belief was instilled in me that stopping is a Bad Thing.


Yesterday, post-"vacation mistake" epiphany, I wrote and answered emails. I signed the signature sheets I mentioned. We worked on the line edits for Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart and The Yellow Book (and we're not too far from being finished with that). Today, more. Of everything. I think Kathryn's going down to her mom and dad's place. Would that I were going with her.


Yesterday, I was looking back over my Blogger entries from December 2003, and I found this passage, written on the 25th:

I will not get smarmy this morning, because I will not be a hypocrite, but I will wish you all the finest things that I can for the long year to come. Peace and freedom from tyranny and fear and repression, in all ways. The realization of dreams, or at least the luxury of the dreams themselves. The dignity that comes with pain that may not be avoided, and the strength to bear all the unbearable moments in life. Beauty and the eyes to see it. And perspective. And joy, which is a far finer thing than any passing happiness...Spooky and I have had the finest Xmas of any I've enjoyed since the late '80s.

I know why I wrote that, why I found an Xmas I could endure. What I spent a considerable bit of the day trying to puzzle out was exactly how things backslid so much between 2003 and now, what happened in the intervening seven years. Oh, I know the answer: a lot of bad shit. A fall. The whole affair left me sort of sick and confused.


Not much else to yesterday. I did manage a decent bit of reading. Three stories: Charles Stross' "A Colder War," Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette's "Mongoose," and Don Webb's "The Great White Bed." I don't think I'm ever going to "get" Stross. I believe he and I must simply exist on different points along the dial. But, reading him yesterday, that old chestnut about SF being the literature of ideas came to mind. Who said that? Pamela Sargent? I think it was her. Anyway, sure, "A Colder War" is a great bundle of interesting ideas. But there's very little in the way of characterization, and without solid characters, a "literature of ideas" is pretty much a textbook. Characters first, and then science. All the technoporn in the world can't save a story from the vacuum created by an absence of solid, believable characters. Also, the Burgess Shale fauna isn't Precambrian, it's Middle Cambrian. Sorry. I know it's poor form, one author publicly grousing about another, but Stross' stories always leave me feeling like I'm missing something that everyone else plainly understands.

As for "Mongoose," it's a beautiful, brilliant, and delightful story. Each of those adjectives was chosen with care, by the way. I'm not just heaping hyperbole. I can also use it to illustrate a point I was trying to make yesterday. I very much dislike Lovecraftian fiction that is parody and/or attempts at literary irony. Almost without fail, they fail, those sorts of stories. The author/s, having decided they cannot possibly take Lovecraft seriously, and that no one else can, either – not in this day and age, and probably not in any day and age – turn/s to satire (usually dimwitted satire). "Mongoose," on the other hand, manages to have a lot of fun with a futuristic extrapolation of Lovecraft's universe, and never once does it feel as if the authors are mocking the source material. It is, I think, a story HPL himself probably would have loved. The difference, I believe, is that "Mongoose" never stoops to parody or derision, but chooses wit and whimsy, instead. Especially whimsy. And it just works. Brava.

It took me forever to get to sleep, but I can't blame Monsieur Insomnia. Not when I didn't get up until one p.m. the day before. I think I finally found sleep sometime after five ayem, after watching the first half hour or so of Clarence Brown's The Rains Came (1939).

Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (talks to wolves)
This morning, Spooky made a fantastic ham omelette (LJ can only spell the word as omelet, which figures), which I ate with pepperoncini (which LJ can't spell at all) and buttered toast, using the leftovers from Friday morning. As I ate, the thought occurred to me, reflecting on all the asshole shoppers and drivers that seem to have slithered out of the cracks the last week or five, I thought, and asked aloud, "If they're this bad at Xmas, what must they be like the rest of the year?" Or maybe it's just that Xmas makes people extra thoughtless, selfish, and whatnot. Maybe it's Consumer Jesus rebound. Regardless, Spooky makes a damned good omelette.

Yesterday? Very, very little with which to regale you lot, kittens. I didn't drink. How's that? I read stories by Sarah Monette and Paul McAuley. The only thing I really wanted to do was board the train last night and ride as far north as Boston or as far south as Manhattan. Just to see the lights, and the long stretches of mostly darkness, and to feel the wheels beneath me. That's what we didn't do, as it was impractical. I'll never understand all this time spent dodging the impractical. If life is an inflated inner tube, then practicality and caution are twin nails waiting to puncture the rubber and release all the air. Practicality and caution are twin nails, and they conspire to thwart the wild heart.

Instead, we nested. We hid. We watched Badder Santa, ate junk food, had Mexican Coke, and played a lot of SW:toR (and no, we haven't forsaken Rift, but I am mostly steering clear until the "Fae Yule" shit has passed). My Sith has yellow eyes now, which I suppose is meant to signify her descent into the Dark Side. Her eyes were the palest blue, almost white. She's a terribly vain woman, who once was a slave in the mines of Korriban. Unmentionable things were done to her there, and those crimes against her mind and body left her shattered, and seeing her eyes turn yellow only drove Varla that much farther into the shadows. But, on the other hand, Darth Zash gave her a shiny new Fury-Class, all's well that ends well.

Also, yesterday – here on Earth – I listened to lots of old music, mostly Athens-period stuff. I stewed and hated at Xmas, like the Grinch atop Mount Crumpit. But the rage has subsided to indifference today. An odd indifference. Today, I am not so much bitter as I am baffled at the shallowness of it all. This day doesn't even feel like that wicked holiday. It just feels like any other cold Sunday in Providence, which is a consolation, so maybe that's my Fury-Class starship.

Wishing For Summer,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Default)
So, [ profile] readingthedark has this hypothesis. If the Bono of 1980 ever meets the Bono of now, the Bono of 1980 will take the Bono of now into an alley and kick his ass. Sounds about right to me. Anyway, I have a soft spot for this. Soft and black. Sort of like when you leave an apple at the bottom on the produce drawer too long...

greygirlbeast: (Default)
greygirlbeast: (Default)

Watch Tom Waits "Silent Night / Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis' on PBS. See more from Austin City Limits.

greygirlbeast: (stab)
Hallelujah, Noël,
Be it Heaven or Hell...

That's the best part of the Greg Lake song, so that's the only part I'm quoting. And that's being generous. Fuck you, Xmas, and the manger you rode in on.

I ought be working, as that's my usual Xmas Eve tradition, but I'm supposedly vacating. Maybe I'll clean my office. I know I'll spend the evening posting Xmas cheer, like Tom Waits' "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis" and the Pogues' "Fairytale of New York." And, of course, Spooky and I have our one and only Xmas Eve tradition: watching Terry Zwigoff's Badder Santa (2003), in which Billy Bob Thornton teaches us the true meaning of Xmas. "Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa." Well, that and wooden pickles. And theft. And booze. After all the intoxicants, do I even remember yesterday? There were emails with publicity at Berkley Publishing Group/New American Library, because, you know, I'm on vacation. Only writers don't get vacations. Not true vacations. And there was a huge breakfast of ham and eggs and tomato and sautéed mushrooms. Oh, look. LJ can only spell sautéed if you leave off the acute accent. Fucking illiterate fucking internet. I read John Langan's "Mr. Gaunt." I took Vicodin for recreational purposes. Hey, my psychiatrist said it was okay, as long as I don't develop a dependency (flash back to my notorious Xanax addiction of 1988-1991). I thought about cleaning up my office, but it was too much work. I wanted some "candlelight yoga," but I was too stoned...and too sore from the fall at West Cove. I spent three hours on an LJ entry, which is sort of pathetic. We watched the last two episodes of American Horror Story (bow tie!!!), then played SW:toR (and I murdered a Darth! Also bow tie.), and I dozed while watching a documentary on how Earth's collision with a planetoid (Theia) led to the creation of the moon 4.53 Ga (4,533 million years ago, ten to the sixth, etc.). I guess that was yesterday. Oh, except for the Tiger Balm patch and two Red Bulls.

Maybe, late tonight, I'll go out and give all my money away to street crazies, and vets we can't be bothered to take care of, all the freezing and the homeless and lost and forgotten and forsaken and as good as walking dead. But not crack whores. I do not take pity on crack whores, kittens.

And now? Well, we shall see, won't we. Keep watching the skies.

Filled With Happy Juice,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Heavy Horses)
I better number this one. Well, after I mention an extraordinarily weird dream I had last night involving a secret society of women who were capable of accomplishing mind transference, and so, once a year, traded bodies. And I was being asked to join. But it wasn't this me, it was some other version of me. The the whole affair was far more sinister than it sounds.

1. On this day in 2001 I began keeping a "blog." I'd long kept a private, handwritten journal, and I found the whole idea of a public journal oxymoronic. You know, "public privacy." America had not yet completely decided that "transparency" in all things was such a hot idea. Well, I still haven't (in fact, I know just the opposite), but I digress. It's been ten years since Neil persuaded me to give this blogging thing a try. And...ten years later, here I am. Offhand, I can think of no other author besides Neil whose blogged longer, and he's been nowhere near as fanatical about it as I've been. I started at Blogger, then at LJ beginning in April 2004, then stopped updating to Blogger in 2006. I suspect I've made an entry for 90% of all the days since that first entry. So, wow. Sure, blogging isn't cool anymore, but who gives a shit about what the interwebs deem cool?

2. [Interlude] Jethro Tull season has begun!

3. Here I will slightly amend a bit from the entry I made on the 24th of November 2009: On this day in 1859, 152 years ago, Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life was first published (by British publishing house, John Murray). If any single book charted the course of my life, this is likely it. So, 152 years ago Darwin proposed a theory of evolution to explain the fact of evolution, and, of course, the theory is still evolving, which is the nature of science. And the creationists still don't get it. Maybe in another 152 years...well...let's not go there. My inner pessimist always wins. It's enough to marvel that so many years have passed, and we've made countless discoveries that would have dazzled, delighted, and humbled Mr. Darwin.

4. I just looked at my friends list (where fewer and fewer entries appear), and Elizabeth Bear ([ profile] matociquala) has written (regarding the subjectivity of time in a narrative):

And thus, maybe a kiss deserves an entire paragraph in one circumstance... and in another, a battle no more than a sentence. It all depends on the subjective way that time dilates and contracts around your viewpoint characters.

And this is well said, but it set me to thinking – as these things always do – that subjectivity renders these sorts of observations all but useless. On the surface, I agree with the sentiment expressed here. Things get messy, though, when the author pauses to realize exactly how incredibly subjective readers' reactions are to...well...everything. What is too little detail for Reader A is too much for Reader B is just right for Reader C, or almost just right for Reader D, or...almost too much for Reader E. And so forth. There really are no happy mediums here. We can only write our voices, and what seems to suit us, and see how it all falls out in the end. That is, in my case, how many readers will feel as I do regarding detail and how long I've lingered on any given subject or event in any given scene. And, then, of course, I ignore the consensus and continue on my way.

5. Oh! Good news re: Rift. Trion appears to have responded to the outrage of many of its players as concerns the "Fae Yule" foolishness. An enormous amount of the Xmas trees, wrapped presents, and crap vanished yesterday with the latest hotfix to patch 1.6. Now, I can mostly avoid it by simply avoiding low-level areas and Meridian (the Defiant capital city) in Freemarch. Trion, it appears you done at least half good, after all. Oh, and gods, I got a glimpse (I quickly averted my eyes) of one of the Xmas themed rifts, complete with fucking snowman. To quote [ profile] kylecassidy, "Sweet barking cheese." Pure cocksucking kitsch.

So, this evening, as the day winds down, this day on which we celebrate obesity and colonialism and the genocide of Native Americans, at the end of this day I can play Rift and pretty much be not be reminded of that which I wish to forget, namely the world's Xtian minority. By the way, last night Spooky and I played Indus (my Eth warrior) and Emris (her Kelari cleric) out in Stonefield. Emris is the only male character either of us plays (though, my main, Selwynn, a Kelari mage, is a strange sort of hermaphrodite). [ profile] opalblack was with us (her Kelari rogue, Harlakai), but then suddenly vanished, and didn't reappear. Ah, but Spooky's talking to her now, so mystery solv'd.

By the way, as I wrote here (as a postscript) in 2008: Postscript: ...just in case anyone has forgotten since the last time i pointed this out, "Endeavor to be inoffensive to all who might have their feelings hurt at the drop of a hat" is not in my job description. In fact, I think it says something rather to the contrary.

6. Yesterday, I rehydrated, took it slow and steady, avoided caffeine, fought back the exhaustion, and wrote the first three pages of script for Alabaster #3. It's a good beginning. And Steve Lieber is hard at work on making my words into pictures. Cool stuff.

7. Back to the shuggoths! And later, William S. Burroughs.

Rolling along,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Here we are, snowed in. Like autumn sunlight, and late afternoon sunlight, snow is kind to Providence. The city is rendered more majestic, and a lot of the ugliness of urban modernity is smoothed away. Until the melting begins, and then it's worse than it was to start with. A wild night last night, but peaceful this morning.

I got to sleep sometime after 4:30 ayem, I believe. Hard to be sure. The facts in the case at hand are fluid. There is more fluidity to the past than most suppose.

It wasn't my intention to have that little blogging hiatus. Sonya and Geoffrey visited on Tuesday and Wednesday, and then, on Thursday and Friday, I got very, very bogged down editing Two Worlds and In Between. And then, on Friday, Xmas Eve, I fell into a sort of funk over the holiday. The last few years, I've done quite a good job of ignoring Xmas, for the most part, but this year it somehow jabbed me in the face with a pointy stick. I did my best to preserve our tradition of anti-Xmas, and I made a huge lasagna, and we watched Badder Santa, and brought out LSD Penguin, and...well, the usual...but Xmas bugged me, anyway. Then the weather went to fuck. We were up and out yesterday morning, far too early, to lay in supplies for the snowy siege.

I should have spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday working on Sirenia Digest #61. It was idiotic of me to do otherwise.


A couple of quick announcements regarding Subterranean Press:

1) Bill Schafer at subpress wrote "...your backlist will be available in all the major e-reader formats, not just for the Kindle." So, correction. All those books I announced as coming to only Kindle in 2011, will actually be coming to pretty much all e-readers. And, since all my novels except Silk are already available for Kindle, I suppose I've entered the Age of Ebooks (even if I came kicking and screaming).

2) I should note that many of the stories being reprinted in Two Worlds and In Between will never again be reprinted anywhere else. At least, not in my lifetime. Mostly, the stories written from 1992 though 2001, probably 14 of the 23 (the majority, actually). So, think of that as an added incentive to pick up a copy of the collection. Also, I have thoughts on how my stories function as comprehensive snapshots of who I was at the time I wrote them, but I'll save those for another entry. Much too much work to do today.

Also also, slow death to anyone who steals electronic copies of anything I write via BitTorrent, etc. Need it free? Use the goddamn library. And interlibrary loan actually does work.


During the storm, Spooky and I read [ profile] blackholly's Tithe (2002), and enjoyed it quite a lot. We've begun Valiant (2005), which is even better. It's always good to see a writer's growth from one book to the next. Mostly, I can't believe I waited so long to start reading Holly's stuff. She does Fairie right. She gives good fay.

Behind the cut, photos of the snow. Two Spooky snapped last night, and one from this morning. We haven't yet ventured out post-blizzard. Maybe later. Maybe Spooky and not me.

I wish I were at the sea.

Yours in White,
Aunt Beast

The Blizzard of 2010, Part 1 )
greygirlbeast: (Default)

greygirlbeast: (white)
I've just not been up for much in the way of blogging since an especially black mood settled over me on Wednesday evening. It was the gaudy fucking tyranny of Xmas and all the ghosts it dredges up every year (only, this year, hitting harder than I've come to expect). It was my usual depression and the bad dreams and having too much to write and not enough time and energy to get it all written. It was the peculiar homesickness I get for places that never much wanted me around to start with, so it seems odd and masochistic to miss them. It was the way I begin to feel when I do not leave the House frequently enough. It was all of these things, and then the news of Vic Chesnutt's suicide.*

I don't think 2010 can come soon enough, because 2009's been bloody brutal (and there's a popular delusion, that turning a calendar page, or changing calendars, will lead to better times). Anyway, at least I had a nice assortment of sweets and pain pills and benzodiazepines on hand to help get me through the so-called "holiday." I was thinking I'd try to recap the last four days...but I'm not sure I'll do anything but make a mess of it. And it's nothing very exciting. But, here goes:

Wednesday (12/23): I wrote 1,010 words on a new vignette for Sirenia Digest #49, which after monumental dithering and near lock-up, I called "Untitled 34." Truthfully, I've no idea how I wrote that much, as I was in a rage most of the day. It's my first Skogsrå story.

Thursday (12/24): I wrote another 1,074 words on "Untitled 34." The writing was much easier on Thursday than on Wednesday. It helped that I didn't have to fret over the silly artifice of a title. Later, I went with Spooky to the market, and saw that the snow had hardly even begun to melt. Later still, what better way to show Xmas the middle finger than watch Bad(der) Santa (2003) on Xmas Eve? Willie and the Kid and Mrs. Santa's Sister actually lifted my spirits for the first time in days ("Fuck me, Santa! Fuck me, Santa! Fuck me, Santa!").

Friday (12/25): I usually make it a point to work on Xmas, but this year I figured if the rest of the country can fuck off for no good reason, then so could I. We had an all afternoon marathon (stretching into the evening) of Die Hard films. Seemed sort of appropriate. John McTiernan's Die Hard (1988) is still probably the best of the four, and I was glad to see it has aged so well (despite all the 80s horridness). Not such a fan of Renny Harlin's Die Harder (1990), though. It's a bit of a mess, and lacks much of what made the first film work. But, fortunately, McTiernan returned in 1995 with Die Hard With A Vengeance, which is really rather delightful. There's a great chemistry between Willis and Jackson, plus we get Sam Phillips and Jeremy Irons as villains. I think it's best to pretend that Die Harder never happened. Die Hard With A Vengeance is a far, far better sequel to the original film. Alas, we didn't watch Len Wiseman's Live Free or Die Hard (2007), because we don't have a copy. Oh, we had hot dogs for "Xmas dinner," because, more importantly, it was Kindernacht. Spooky baked gingerbread.

Saturday (12/26): I sat down at the keyboard yesterday determined to finish "Untitled 34," and finish it I did. I wrote a very respectable 1,707 words. Later, we watched Doctor Who— "The Next Doctor" —and Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums (2001). Somehow, it often seems this is the film that all but defines mine and Kathryn's relationship. Make of that what you will. And it is a comfort film. Also, yesterday I finished reading the paper on Massospondylus kaalae and began reading "The Postcranial Osteology of Rapetosaurus [Sauropoda; Titanosauria] from the Late Cretaceous of Madagascar."

Yeah...I sort of made a mess of that. But you should get the gist. I left out all the WoW. We've played a lot of WoW the last few days. We'd decided to forsake the Borean Tundra and return to Dragonblight, but then we wound up fighting with the Tuskarr against the ghosts of sea giants, and that was actually very cool. Seeing Suraa and Shaharrazad, flanked by Tuskarr warriors, charging across the ice towards a line of phantom Vrykul sailors who were just clambering off their boat– exquisite. For that, I can almost forgive the ugliness and mess of Warsong Hold. Then we entered the Scourge's Temple City of En'kilah and the floating city of Naxxanar above it and assassinated Prince Valanar and his two lieutenants Luthion the Vile and Vanthryn the Merciless. After that, we aided in the evacuation of Taunka'le, which took us back Dragonblight and Agmar's Hammer. And...well, lots and lots more. We're now at Level 74, halfway to 75, and finally made it to Dalaran, where Shah's taken residence at the Filthy Animal in the Horde Quarter.

You's been time to make the doughnuts for the last half hour. Sheesh. No one's going to read all this crap.

* Here's a link to Kristin Hersh's eulogy.
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Yesterday was almost, and perhaps actually, a total loss, so far as writing is concerned. I managed only 285 words on "The Jetsam of Disremembered Mechanics," and then I just...locked up. I couldn't tell if what I was writing was good enough. I was suddenly no longer certain if any part of the story was anything but trite, hollow...and so I locked up. I sat here another hour or so, angry and baffled and aware that it might all have stemmed from my having used Ambien to get to sleep Tuesday morning. Finally, Spooky said I should get up, that we should get out of the house. And so we did.

Though it was late in the day when we left, we headed across town to the Bell Gallery (Brown University) at 64 College Street, which is currently featuring Rachel Berwick's installation "Zugunruhe." Berick's work generally concerns species that have recently become extinct, or were thought to be extinct until recently, or may soon be extinct— the Tasmanian tiger, the Galapagos tortoise, the coelacanth, etc. "Zugunruhe" is devoted to the passenger pigeon (Ectopistes migratorius), a bird that once inhabited North America in almost unimaginable numbers, but was wiped out during the 1800's by hunting and deforestation. The species was effectively extinct in the wild by the early 20th Century. The last captive specimen died at the Cincinnati Zoo on September 1, 1914 (the last authenticated sighting in the wild was made in Pike County, Ohio, on March 22, 1900).

The instillation is startling in its simplicity. First, we are greeted by an enormous copy of Audubon's 1840 Birds of America (five feet wide when opened), displaying his life-sized illustration of the passenger pigeon. And then there are grey walls on which have been recorded excerpts from the writings of 19th Century naturalists and hunters, describing the almost unbelievable size of Ectopistes migratorius flocks. On a pedestal stands a glass bell jar or globe, inside of which is an odd contraption with a large brass needle which rotates erratically, almost compass like, both recalling migratory instincts and pointing to the quotes on the walls. The final part of the instillation is a great heptagonal glass case in a darkened room. The case contains a tree, and the branches of the tree are festooned with hundreds of passenger pigeons cast in orange copal (a million or so years old, an immature form of amber).

By the way, "zugunruhe" is a an obscure German ornithological term for the nighttime restlessness displayed by migratory birds.


Leaving the gallery, just as the bells at Brown were tolling four p.m. (EST), I had a minor absence seizure. Which may explain the trouble I'd been having with the story, as work often becomes difficult before a seizure. We stopped by the market before heading home. There was Chinese takeout for dinner, as no one felt like cooking. We streamed a truly dreadful film from Netflix, Thora Birch and some other people in Sean McConville's Deadline (2009). This has to be one of the dullest films of the year, and I'm not sure why we didn't shut it off after the first twenty minutes. I will say, the ghost story is one of the most difficult supernatural tales to pull off effectively, especially in film, and one does not manage that trick by regurgitating every tiresome gimmick from the last decade of American and Japanese cinema (most of which never worked to begin with). Avoid this film. And you might also want to avoid WoW until after the "holidays," as its been infested with inappropriate Xmas idiocy again. We quested a bit in remote parts of the Howling Fjord and reached Level 71. There was a genuinely creepy encounter with the Lich King inside a sepulcher at the Vrykul city of Gjalerbron. Shaharrazad and Suraa slew the Vrykul queen Angerboda as she was attempting to resurrect King Ymiron. But the Lich King made a brief appearance and spirited the two giants away.

And that was yesterday. But there are photos:

15 December 2009 )
greygirlbeast: (Ellen Ripley 1)
This morning, Elizabeth Bear ([ profile] matociquala) said some good stuff about writing, and if you're interested in that sort of thing, you should have a look. Though I gather she and I have very different systems for getting it done, I think she's mostly bang on. My only quibble was with this line, in her summation, "You must revise what you write." And I say that because, generally, I don't revise what I write. Oh, I might come back fifteen years later and do some damn fool rewording, but, usually, what comes out as my "first draft" is what sees print (at least the first time it sees print), be it vignette, short story, novella, or novel. And since I'm a moderately successful published author, it is obviously not true that revision is a "must." In the end, this all comes back to what I've said again and again and again. There is no set of rules. There are people who will tell you there is, and there are people who make a living doing just that. But it's a lie. The only set of musts is what works for you. Unless, of course, what works for you isn't working, in which case, it might be that you simply weren't meant to be a writer, and all the formulae under the sun won't change that. Anyway...yes, a good post.

Because I made a somewhat idiotic miscalculation as to when I would be receiving my next check from Penguin, we're starting a new round of eBay auctions. Please, if you can, bid. I'm even going to do something I've not done since 2005 or so. Every winning bidder will receive one of my patented Monster Doodles. Okay, so they're not patented, but people seem to like them. Right now, we have copies of the "Mercury" chapbook, the trade edition of Frog Toes and Tentacles, and the Little Damned Book of Days chapbook up. But more is coming. Spooky's even going to be doing a couple of the black velvet/red silk "cozies" to accompany lettered editions of Frog Toes and Tentacles. These were, as they say, all the rage back in 2006. But she only made a handful, and they all sold. So, yes, please have a look at the current auctions. Because I'm lousy at finances. Thanks.

As for yesterday, it was all I could do not to head for the Cape (Cod), once I learned the extraction had been postponed pending the cessation of this damned cough. The weather was so warm (low sixties), and the sea was calling. Instead, I was good, and I sat here in my chair and worked. I did the line edits on "The Colliers' Venus (1893)." I spoke with my agent in NYC. I finally almost caught up on my email. I spoke with the artist who will be spotlighted in Sirenia Digest #37. I was productive, which just seems stupid, all things considered.

Today, we have winter-weather warnings, and will be seeing a mix of snow and rain tonight.

Last night, after Chinese leftovers (pork moo shu and beef fried rice), we played WoW, and played, and played...and played. And yet we managed, somehow, not to reach Lvl 42. We wound up out in Desolace, trying to help orcs start some sort of centaur civil war. Yes, we went all the way to Desolace, the wastelands on the western edge of Kalimdor, just to escape the Xmas idiocy that has infested WoW. In Silvermoon City, there are Xmas trees and blood elves in Santa suits. I shit you not. Undercity looks like the Xmas decorations section at Hot Topic threw up all over everything. So...I'll either be sticking to the wilderness until this insanity passes, or I'll lay off WoW until the new year. Sticking to the wilderness is no guarantee of safety, as I hear "grinches" are now roaming the Alterac Mountains. I will not do even a single of those stupid Xmas quests or accomplishments. I don't care if they would instantly catapult me to Lvl 80. And what amazes me, players love this silly shit. Go figure. Anyway, yeah...we finished up at the Dustwallow Marshes and traveled, on horseback, east across the Barrens and the Stonetalon Mountains to Desolace. Aptly named Desolace. I'm not exactly sure what the orcs want with the place, truth be told. Somehow, we were up until after four ayem (!!!!) trying to reach Lvl 42. Mostly, I think the pain in my mouth was keeping me awake, and playing WoW in pain was better than trying to sleep in pain. There are a couple of screencaps behind the cut., here's another day. Well, the few hours remaining until sunset. Let's see what's next:

Desolace )
greygirlbeast: (Bowie3)
One year and one day ago, I wrote the following in this journal:

So, go with it, nixar. All around me, the world celebrates this bizarre holiday, a mostly secularized/commercialized version of various pagan traditions all smushed up together and usurped by the Xtians, and I sit in my shadowy little room writing weird sex and paraphilic fantasies of corporeal transcendence. It could be worse.

Good to know some things stay the same. Which is to say that yesterday was spent on letters C-E of "The Crimson Alphabet" (which will be appearing in Sirenia Digest #25 at the very end of this month). I chose Chiroptera for C, Dagon for D, and Elizabeth Báthory for E. The last of the three came off especially well, I think. Today, I neeed to try to take care of F-I, and then wrap up Part One of the alphabet tomorrow.

And someone out there, a spammer and practitioner of broken English, clearly thinks I'm an android, as evidenced by the following:

Your woman doesn't want to jazz it with you because of your device size. Everything will be all right for sure. All you have to do is just make use of our instrument enlargement. You will forget about problem and your girl will be happy.

"Jazz it" with me? Oh, also, it should be noted that this supposedly came from a "Dr. Isabel Bergeron," but I sort of figure that part's a lie. At least the "Dr." part.

Have a look at the eBay auctions, please. It's easy.

Oh, and Hubero asked me to explain that his name is Nebari, not Spanish, and that it is pronounced "HU-bero," not "hu-BER-o" with a rolled "r." See, cat, I do so listen to you. Okay, now I need to go "jazz it" with a platypus and a large cup of coffee. Excuse me.
greygirlbeast: (chi4)
Oh, frell me. As if the flood of new games hasn't already wreaked total ownage upon me, I just stumbled across Magna Carta: Tears of Blood. Verily, I am doomed.

Yesterday, I noted that I'd worked thirteen days without a break, and that eleven of them had been full-on writing days, and Spooky declared that I deserved a day off. So, yes, there were e-mails I should have answered and all manner of things I should have worked on, but I didn't. I didn't do much of anything. Towards sunset, we took Sophie to the park (which she doesn't seem to like anymore, after a bad dog experience) and watched a gorgeous pink full moonrise. I also caught up on some personal correspondence, and last night we drove up to Buckhead for dinner with friends. It was a nice non-frantic day. I think discovering that I finished the novel two months early, instead of two weeks early, sort of freaked me out. I needed downtime desperately. I probably still need downtime, but today I'm getting back on the horse (and mixing metaphors). After dinner last night, we sat up talking, waiting for the storms that were headed towards us. I think it was after three before I finally fell asleep. Yesterday was warm and sunny. Today is chilly and wet, and tonight's going to be cold. I assume tomorrow will be likewise. Bleh.

And let me just say, I'm already sick to puking death of Thanksgiving and Xmas. This year, Spooky and I will have a quiet little observance of Solstice and that shall be that. Though, I admit, if I had Poppy's black Santa, I'd be sorely tempted to stick him out in the front yard until all this foolishness is past.

Today, I have to get the text for the first Sirenia Digest ready and send it out to my PDF guru. I also need to work on two different interviews and maybe have a brief look at the Daughter of Hounds ms. And read over the two chapters of Threshold that we didn't read yesterday. So, yeah, a busy day and looking at it that way, I'd kind of like to go back to yesterday, or at least go back to bed. But no. Alas, I must earn my Harry Potter tickets.

There's still time to subscribe before the first Sirenia Digest is mailed. Just click here. And my grateful thanks to everyone who's subscribed already. Now. I work.


greygirlbeast: (Default)
Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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