Thursday, February 03, 2005
Yesterday, I read over the 1,488 words I'd written on Tuesday, pronounced them crap, and started the preface over again. And the fourth time proved to be a charm. I sat here, my feet freezing (you'd think those mammoths and musk oxen would give off a little heat), banging away at the iBook until about six p.m. or so, when I discovered that I had something like three thousand words of finished preface for To Charles Fort, With Love. Huzzah. This morning, before I even got out of bed, I read over the whole thing again, to be sure it wasn't dren, and still liked what I saw. Small miracles. I'll proof it again today, write up the book's acknowledgments, and get the full ms. off to Subterranean Press by tomorrow. I think I may not do the afterwords for each story after all, mainly because I just haven't the time. The preface, entitled "Looking for Innsmouth," took too long. Sorry about that.
Murder of Angels has been given a very, very fine review by the Internet Review of Science Fiction. I could not be more pleased. This is one of my favorite reviews ever, I think. My thanks to Sonya Taaffe for bringing it to my attention.
We're waiting on some guy from Benton Express, a courier I've never heard of before this morning, to deliver fourteen boxes of Silk. The delivery's about an hour late at this point; they called for directions, but haven't yet shown up.
Maybe I should answer a couple of e-mails. Here's one...
Okay, I hesitated to write this, but I'm so utterly confused I feel I must. I've been reading your LiveJournal for about two months now, and I was under the apparently mistaken impression that Spooky and Jennifer were the same person. At one point, I thought Spooky was the cat, but I got over that idea quickly. So it's probably really, really stupid to ask but . . . who is Spooky? Not asking for a name, mind you, just wondering if I have any of this right?
Spooky is Kathryn. Kathryn is my girlfriend. The cat's name is Sophie (it's also Uma, Rhea, Joe, sometimes George, and she's been known to answer to Evil). Jennifer is our roommate, my former assistant. Jennifer is "Spookydooky," not to be confused with Spooky. This will be on the test.
Here's another...
I must confess that I have not read any of your work, but I enjoy your online journal immensely - and plan to remedy the "not having read the novels" problem as soon as I'm done with more odious tasks of a vaguely scholastic nature. Your entry about the hotel, alcohol, heroin, and the French-speaking boywhore made me laugh so hard I scared my cats. I knew exactly what you meant, and have been threatening to do it myself; while I managed to survive law school, the Bar itself may do me in.
I agree with your opinion that people who write to authors to point out typos are, well, asses. Anyone who is allowed to go out in public alone should be at least vaguely aware of the fact that there are these people called editors who are supposed to do this thing called proofreading, thus eliminating typos, but alas, sometimes one will escape everyone's notice.
In short, bugger the lot of 'em with the implement of your choice. Your journal is beautifully written and highly grammatical, and criticism of typos by people who most likely have trouble assembling coherent e-mails is just petty, piddling mammoth poop.
Speaking of which - how did the mammoths light that fire? They don't usually have thumbs...
Ah, but see, these are mammoths of Great Preparedness. They have devised a peculiar sort of device which looks sort of like a magnifying glass, sort of like a toaster, which focuses any ambient light into a beam sufficient to spark a fire. They claim they stole the technology from the Atlanteans, but I suspect they might be lying. Anyway, it's all cool, because no thumbs are required in the use of this device, whatever its provenance. The somewhat prehensilel trunk is more than equal to the task.
My thanks to StS in Texas for a copy of the unrated director's cut of The Chronicles of Riddick, which reached me yesterday. Thank you very much. Little appreciations like this make everything better. I have even prepared an Amazon.com wishlist to make things easier for those desiring to express their gratitude to a particular overworked, underpaid author.
And speaking of being overworked, I'm taking tomorrow off. I've not had a frelling genuine day off in weeks. I'll lay in bed all day and read, or go to Fernbank and visit the dinosaurs, or see a movie, or hire a couple of hot she-male prostitutes, but I shall not work.
And, to anyone who still thinks that socialized medicine is a threat to America, I'd like to point out the results of a recent study by Harvard University. Someday, people, you're gonna have to make a choice — continue to heed the scare tactics of the insurance companies, pharmaceutical giants, and right-wing politicians, or opt for a future where the health of a nation, both physical and fiscal, is more important than the riches reaped by a few of its citizens. This can't go on forever.
11:53 AM
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