Thursday, February 13, 2003
No entry yesterday. Spooky and I had to drive to frelling Birmingham because I had an appointment with my frelling dentist. There are things I hate worse than trips to the dentist, but it's a short, short list. On the way, a doe made a dash across I-20 and, somehow, we missed it and the cars behind us missed it. It was four or five long seconds of life-before-your-eyes terror though. I was glad the deer survived, but spent the day with visions of me and Spooky having to be buried together, fused with a scorched heap of venison. We stopped shortly afterwards, at the Alabama welcome center ("Abandon All Hope . . . " and the Confederate battle flag), where we watched half a dozen or so anoles basking in the sun. The two things are oddly paired in my mind, yesterday's wildlife bookends. During the drive, I read William Gibson aloud ("Johnny Mnemonic" and "Burning Chrome"); I dozed on the trip back. To decompress, we watched Portrait of Jenny and The Haunting (the original and superb Robert Wise adaptation, not the recent abomination). And that, my pets, was yesterday.
David Bowie on the headphones. Heathen.
It's time to get back to work on something. I've been fairly idle since I finished "La Peau Verte" on February 4th. There was the two or three days I spent trying to find a way into "The Rose Garden," to no avail, and there's been a ton of business-of-writing type work. But it's time to get back to the writing part of writing. Of course, as soon as I do, as soon as I get going good, the editorial letter from Roc will arrive and I'll have to stop everything and attend to the read-through and revisions on Low Red Moon. It always goes that way. I think I'm ready to begin Chapter Four of the novel formerly known as Murder of Angels (I have got to come up with a new title, because typing that is driving me bahooties), but I hate to be interrupted, once things get rolling along. Interruption isn't a Deadly Sin, it's just an external nuisance, unless you allow it to become Distraction, in which case you're in trouble.
I'm having one of those "why do I bother" mornings. For example, this from Karlsweb.com:"According to an article in issue #102 of Dreamwatch magazine, the SciFi Channel rejected J. Michael Straczynski's proposed new series Polaris because they deemed it 'too science fiction-y.' Mr. Straczynsk reveals that instead, '...they went for a project about intergalactic vampires called Bloodsuckers.'" Pretty soon, looking for sci-fi on Sci-Fi will be more futile than looking for beef in a McDonald's hamburger. Oh, and this gem off usenet, regarding Bast: Eternity Game (someday I'll learn to stay the frell away from Google): "I read it. I thought it was typical of most of the Gaiman wanna be writers — forgettable drivel that D.C. is trying to make a buck off of by cashing in on Gaiman's rep and slapping on a fancy McKean cover." I suppose people are catching on. Why, just the other day, I was telling Neil that my only ambition in the whole wide world is to be him. I've been talking to a plastic surgeon who says he can manage a reasonable facsimile, but the disparity in our heights is going to be a little troublesome.
It's shit like this makes my want to go back to bed.
But hey, you can't blame Sci-Fi for wanting to make a buck and you can't blame fan boys for mouthing off on usenet. There is a Natural Order to things, after all.
And speaking of making a buck, the eBay auctions have been going very well. Thank you all. I have a big stack of book's to inscribe so that Spooky can whisk them off to the p.o. And there's a lot more stuff to come. Maybe I'll reduce the book mountain in the closet before all those copies of Trilobite: The Writing of Threshold and Waycross show up in a few weeks. Oh, and the NYARLATHOTEP cds, which will be here next week. So, if you haven't already, check out the auctions:
Caitlín Sells Out
And remember, even fan boys get the blues . . .
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