Monday, February 28, 2005
Yesterday is hardly worth mentioning. Nothing was written. Nothing.
Yesterday evening, I finally gave up and lay down in front of the television. I watched The Bridge on the River Kwai, one of my several hundred faves, and then Spooky watched the Oscars with me. I was fairly happy with the results, though I do think that best director should have gone to Scorcese. That makes three times he's be nominated and lost, and Eastwood already had an Oscar for Unforgiven. Eastwood is a good director, yes, but Scorcese is a great director. Therein might lie the problem. I think only six of my seventeen "wishes" were on the mark. I was pleased that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind got Best Screenplay (original), but very disappointed that Best Picture didn't go to The Aviator. It was a good year for dressses, a lousy year for suits. I think Johnny Depp and Jeremy Irons were the only well-dressed men we saw. Has anyone else noticed that the Oscars seem to be somewhat less festive the last couple of years, almost rushed, hushed, something like that? Anyway, Chris Rock felt out of his element, though his opening monologue improved near the end (I loved the bit about The Gap declaring war on Banana Republic, only to discover there never were any tank tops). I predict he will not be back. Whoopi, please. Oh, and if I never have to hear that wretched Beyonce child again, it'll be way too frelling soon.
It sounds like Spooky's tearing out the kitchen. Ah, well.
We have cold, cold weather coming back. I'm making room for the mammoths and buying a train ticket to Miami. I already have the sniffles, though I think it's only allergies. I hardly ever get sick anymore, but one can never tell.
I still haven't sent my Koja piece to Steve Jones. I have to read it through again to be sure I don't hate it. The deadline is tomorrow.
Oh, and the guiche is doing just fine. I'm contemplating other southerly piercings.
What's with these silly little short-ass paragraphs? Ugh. Let's make an end of this entry, then. Thanks to everyone who's taken part in the auctions so far. I have received a couple of e-mails from people wanting to know about the reserve on the lettered of The Five of Cups. Of course, telling you that would defeat the purpose of there being a secret reserve. However, I will say that while it's quite a bit more than the current high bid, it's far below the $200 publisher's price for this edition. It's most definitely a deal. And hey, you got those ten-dollar copies of Silk and copies In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers and From Weird and Distant Shores and etc.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
It's that time again. Note that this is not a list of the nominees I think will win, but a list of those I think should win.
Actor: Leonardo DiCaprio - THE AVIATOR
Actor in a Supporting Role: Alan Alda - THE AVIATOR
Actress: Hilary Swank - MILLION DOLLAR BABY
Actress in a Supporting Role: Cate Blanchett - THE AVIATOR
Animated Feature Film: THE INCREDIBLES
Art Direction: LEMONY SNICKET'S A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS
Cinematography: HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS
Costume Design: THE AVIATOR
Directing: THE AVIATOR
Documentary Feature: SUPER SIZE ME
Film Editing: THE AVIATOR
Makeup: LEMONY SNICKET'S A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS
Music (Score): LEMONY SNICKET'S A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS
Visual Effects: HARRY POTTER AND THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN
Writing (Adapted Screenplay): MILLION DOLLAR BABY
Writing (Original Screenplay): THE AVIATOR (with ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND a close second)
Best Picture (drum roll): THE AVIATOR
Watch me be wrong about almost everything.
I finished the brief essay on Skin yesterday. Today, I have to read over it and e-mail it to Steve Jones. I think I shall not agree to do this sort of thing in the future. There's something deeply unpleasant to me, writing about other people's fiction.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
I do not feel well this morning. I don't feel sick, I just don't feel well, either. Sort of the way that an absence of war is not peace, peace being a positive state in and unto itself (like war). Wellness is not a negative state, not merely the absence of sickness. So what's in between?
Yesterday, I reworked "Los Angels 2162 (December)" again. I tried to put a little more emphasis on the erotic elements. Today, I shall write my essay on Skin, as we finished the novel last night and my deadline is Monday. And then, then I absolutely have to get back to Daughter of Hounds. I'd meant to do two chapters in February. Instead, I did only about half of one. This is called Procrastination.
Spooky and I made a 4:40 matinee of Constantine, and I was pleasantly surprised. There are a lot of things wrong with this film, but there are a lot of things right, as well, and, in the end, taken on its own merits, it's not half bad. The worst of it is Keanu Reaves, who was about as wrong for the part of Constantine as anyone could be. No, wait. Gilbert Godfried would have been worse. Maybe. The best of it was probably Tilda Swinton, who was absolutely brilliant as Gabriel. Her performance is one of the creepiest, sexiest things I've seen in some time. The metaphysics and theology of the film are nothing earthshattering (but neither are those of the comic), but they're nice enough to hold one's attention. I was pleased with the way that the film loaded most of the big CGI monster effects into the first half, then let more subtle effects dominate the latter half. Afterwards, I said something to Kathryn about how it would have been interesting to have seen the film the way she saw the film, without all my used-to-be-Catholic baggage, viewing it as just another take on just another mythology. If only I'd had an anthropologist for a father and an archaeologist for a mom, both of them athiest. This was the first film we've seen at a theatre since New Year's, when we saw The Life Aquatic.
Check out the latest chapter of Boschen and Netsuko (Chapter Fourteen). Note: it's definitely not worksafe.
Please take a look at the fix-the-damn-car eBay auctions. I should note that I have only a few copies of the hardback on Low Red Moon, so these will most likely not be going for "buy it now" prices from here on. Bidding will be necessary. Silk is still only $10 a copy. I still haven't fixed the image for In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers, but you should buy it, anyway. We still have a few copies of Murder of Angels. Buy or bid.
And now I have to go write. Where's that frelling stick?
Friday, February 25, 2005
I suppose the whole eBay think might go better if I'd provided the frelling link. Sorry about that. My head was full of Weird Perversities this morning. Anyway, Silk for only ten dollars. Check it out.
Also, I'm snurching this next bit from brokensymmetry, because I liked it and think it should be read by more people, and I figure it's fair, since he said I played a role in the formation of these thoughts:
The idea stated bluntly is this: the right mathematical language with which to describe magick, assuming you want to describe magick mathematically, would seem to be category theory.
Of course this may be because category theory is the right mathematical language with which to describe everything. It's becoming increasingly important to pure math, physics (including string theory), computer science, and so on.
But I can't explain the idea without explaining category theory, which I have neither the time nor skill to do, and there don't seem to be any good online introductions. And it doesn't help that my understanding of the subject is still very rudimentary.
What I can say is that a lot of magick seems to me to be about defining some sort of equivalences between things (sephiroth, colors, elements, major arcana, deities, etc) and the relationships and processes between things (what is done to the voodoo doll will happen to the person). In particular these equivalences are not equalities but some sort of "equality with regards to a particular attribute or structure." Category theory is all about modeling mappings between things, processes and equivalences in an abstract and general way.
For fans of "Full Metal Alchemist," the law of equivalent exchange could be rephrased as "the only transformations allowed by alchemy are isomorphisms".
My own magickal inquiries have been curtailed by my workload and the glumness that winter brings, but this is headed, essentially, in the direction I was headed, only I'll never be a good enough mathematician to be a very good magickian. Also, this last bit from brokensymmetry, which says it all:
[I should also add by way of clarification that I'm quite prepared to believe magick works, but only for suitable definitions of magick best exemplified by a bit from one of Terry Pratchett's novels where Magrat has fallen off her broom and performs a spell which changes her from a panicked, terrified woman plummeting towards the ground into a calm, rational woman plummeting towards the ground.]
Friday already. Ugh. Bleh. Blurg. At least I was able to finish the second of the vignettes yesterday afternoon. I've started writing on the chaise in the front room, in order to avoid e-mail and the telephone. I didn't get much else done, though, aside from finishing "Los Angeles 2162 (December)." I did get to an intro I agreed to write for an intro, the introduction by Jack Morgan that was omitted from the subpress edition of Low Red Moon and will now be released as a separate free chapbook. I did get that done. Spooky went out and found a new wok, which we've only been needing for approximately forever, since the old one died (i.e., its non-sticky stuff finally came unstuck) way back before the move. We got the eBay auctions going again. So, it was an oddly productive day.
When I originally asked if anyone would want to read a book of erotica written by me (and that was less than three weeks ago), the whole thing was a bit of a lark. I thought it would be fun to do. I thought it might even be relatively easy. I may have been wrong on both counts. The vignettes want to become actual stories. That's the main problem. No. That's not true. The main problem is that the Object of these pieces is sex (and, if I consider the reader as part of the equation, sexual arousal), and I never, ever write with an Object in mind. This is one reason I insist that I do not write "horror." I don't sit down to write a story which will evoke horror, or terror, or awe, or whatever. Evoking all those things is fine, and I hope my stories do it. But I sit down to write stories, and there's rarely more of an Object than that. Here, though, there's this thing that has to happen. A thousand words into "Los Angeles 2162 (December)" there'd been no sex, but some pretty good story, and I had to remind myself that this was erotica, which means that something erotic needed to happen. I got to it in the last 800 words or so out of about 2,200. And, of course, this is twisted stuff. Not just kinky. Twisted. So far into perverse that it might be mistaken for something else altogether, and I can't help but think, no one wants to read this. No one but me and Spooky and a few other polymorphously perverse Cthulhu fetishists. *sigh* Indeed, I would back out, but, at this point, I have challenged myself, and that can only ever end one way. I have to win. I have to make this book happen. I have to make it the book I want it to be.
And what about Daughter of Hounds? Maybe tomorrow.
I have only three days left to finish Skin and write my little essay on it for Stephen Jones. I keep finding so many wonderful passages, so many specifics that try to distract me from the whole I need to be concentrating upon. I'd forgotten how much I loved Tess, even though she makes me want to throttle her. I'd forgotten how much Bibi frightens me, because I see so much of myself in her. I'd forgotten what a jerk Michael is or how much I liked Jerome. But mostly, I'd forgotten the beauty of the language:
It's beautiful. —No it isn't. It's worse than beautiful.
I could go on quoting lines until I'd transcribed the entire damn book. I did find a couple or three scenes interesting in a new light (new for me), in regards to recent comments here about the role of sex in fiction, and with regard to my work on Frog Toes and Tentacles. There are three or four sex scenes in Skin, and they are heady things, but they are so seamlessly interwoven with the language and the narrative that there's never that moment I feel in most narratives that include sex, the moment where everything suddenly stops so that we can watch the sex happen, after which the story will resume. There's never a peep-show window cut into the story. The sex is truly part of the story, so deeply embedded it's almost impossible to tease it free of the whole. I wish I could do that. It's one thing I'm struggling to accomplish in these erotica pieces. And, in some ways, "Los Angeles 2162 (December)" might come close, except that it will appear as part of a book of erotica, so certain expectations will be attached a priori. What would come as a surprise, ordinarily, will, instead, be something the reader is waiting on. The story is defeated by the presentation. Indeed, ironically, the erotic element of the story could be defeated by impatience following from the knowledge that the story is in a book of erotica. I think this happens with "horror" all the time. Readers come expecting only "scary" stories and are disappointed if they get anything more.
I just want to do it right. Nothing else matters.
The eBay auctions got off to a good start yesterday. All our thanks. Please have a look, if you haven't already. I've noticed that the graphic for In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers isn't working. I'll try to fix that today.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
I began reading The Mistaken Extinction last night and made it through the first five chapters. A very readable book for any lay person interested in what may have caused the extinction event that took out the dinosaurs (excepting the surviving avian therpods). I was pleased that the authors addressed the issue of dinosaurs as poster children for extinction right off —
When it comes to the extinction of the dinosaurs, we really shouldn't feel too badly about it because it's well known that dinosaurs majestically ruled over the land for over 150 million years. Given that we humans are on the verge of annihilating our species after only about 100,000 years, it's not as though the dinosaurs got cheated.
I wrote well over 1,100 words on the second of the Frog Toes & Tentacles vignettes yesterday, which I'm calling "Los Angeles, 2162 (December)." Something found in the corner of an abandoned building. I'll likely finish it today, even though I haven't done with polishing the first and still untitled vignette (which involves a "sea daughter"). Meanwhile, Daughter of Hounds sits neglected, glaring at me with its big, round, rheumy yellow eyes. It thinks I have forsaken it. It should know better. We shall have many months together yet, it and I, whether I like it or not. E-mail with Ramsey Campbell yesterday, e-mail with lots of others, too. I think I'll only have half an hour to read at WHC in NYC, so I spent some time trying to figure out something that would be short enough. There's damn little. I'll probably read an excerpt from the Daughter of Hounds ms. As soon as I know my scehdule, I'll post it here. Also, I discovered I'd completetly forgotten that I owed John Pelan a story for his next anthology, The Cthuluian Singularity (edited with Hank Schwaeble), and the deadline's in June, so that goes on the list that rules my waking life.
I've been up since 6:30 a.m., after being awake until almost 4 a.m. I've had Gatorade, a Red Bull, one vile Pop Tart, and a can of Campbell's soup.
I spent part of yesterday wondering if HPL knew of Dogtown Commons. He almost surely did.
Because there is never enough breathing room, we've started the eBay auctions up again. Just as the last of the dental bills were paid, Spooky's car has decided to go all but belly-up, so now there's that to contend with. So, please follow this link to the auctions, look around, and if you see anything you like, please use "buy it now." The next five people to do so shall receive a free Kaiyodo minature prehistoric animal figurine (one per customer). We're offerring the trade paperback of SIlk for only ten bucks each (+ s&h). There's a copy of the lettered edition of The Five of Cups beginning at a mere $1 (no "buy it now" on that one). Also, I've put up what will likely be the last ARC of The Dry Salvages that I'll be auctioning. We have a few of the hardcovers of Low Red Moon. Lots and lots of stuff.
Okay. Off to write some very weird smut.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
I just heard that the thing with the hacking of Paris Hilton's Sidekick actually made the front page of the New York Post. Oh, those wacky humans.
Let's see. News type stuff. Well, the contracts with Marvel will be signed today. Also, Vince Locke has agreed to do the artwork for Frog Toes & Tentacles, which is very cool. Furthermore, if you ordered a copy of the Subterranean Press edition of Low Red Moon, you may have noticed by now that the copyright page makes reference to an introduction by Jack Morgan (The Biology of Horror) which does not, in fact, appear in the printed volume. Somehow, it was omitted in the file that went to the printer. Anyway, Subterranean Press is releasing the intro as a chapbook. If you ordered Low Red Moon, you may get a copy for free. Just e-mail subpress@earthlink.net, give them your name and address (and, of course, tell them why you're writing), and a copy will be reserved in your name. When the chapbook is published, you'll get a copy, free-of-charge. Promise.
Also, be advised, Subterranean Press has just announced publication of To Charles Fort, With Love and has begun taking preorders. Note this special offer: Until 11:59 PM, February 26, 2004 To Charles Fort, With Love is 20% off. To take advantage, mention the 20% off in the comments section of the order form. This offer may not be combined with any other specials or coupons. So, preorder now and save money.
Yesterday, the mail brought my copy of the Library of America's H. P. Lovecraft: Tales, edited by Peter Straub. It's a very handsome book, as are all the Library of America editions. I am mostly pleased with Peter's choice of stories, though I do question the inclusion of "He" and "The Lurking Fear." It is worth noting that the version of "The Shadow Out of Time" that appears here is the text as HPL intended it to be published, as per the 2003 Hippocampus Press edition, Also, this volume is slimmer than the classic Arkham House editions and therefore makes for an ideal travel volume of HPL. I sat down and read "Cool Air" last night. I love the onionskin-thin pages of the LofA editions.
Yesterday was a flurry of business-of-writing work, such that I had no chance to get any actual writing done, what with the barage of phone calls and e-mail. Finally, about 4:30 p.m., Spooky and I escaped the house. We made a stop at Fernbank, because she wanted to check on the progress of the bullfrog tadpoles. Then we spent about an hour at the Emory University library, and now I'm reading Tolkien: A Biography by Humphrey Carpenter and The Mistaken Extinction: Dinosaur Evolution and the Origin of Birds by Lowell Dingus and Timothy Rowe. We had Thai for dinner, because we were both craving a pepper high. So, it was a decent enough day yesterday. The weather was gorgeous. I think we get another warm day today, then back to the chill for a bit.
The new National Geographic also came yesterday. It includes several snitty letters from creationists regarding the "Was Darwin Wrong" article a few issues back. I have no idea why NG prints these things. I have even less of an understanding of why a creationist would be reading NG. I suspect they don't, mostly. They just watch, in waiting rooms and at newsstands, for "offending" articles, then write their nasty, ignorant letters. And that would be fine, if only NG didn't feel duty-bound to print the things.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
At least the weather's better. There was a break in the clouds yesterday, following a rise in temperature to the lower '70s. Around nightfall, there was lightning to the north, and at 8:30 p.m., a glorious thunderstorm broke over Atlanta. Brillinat lightning. Hail. I stood in the rain on the front porch with my arms outstretched to the epileptic sky, and I screamed as loud as I could. It's the first thing that's really felt good in ages. Spring is coming, soon. There will be more cold weather, but spring is coming, nonetheless.
As for writing yesterday, I did relevant reading, which is almost work. It's dren that has to be done, regardless. There may be more of that today. It has become necessary before I can proceed with Chapter Three. Sorting out Dogtown, adding to and subtracting from the myths surrounding the ghost town. Fictionalizing. Weaving unrealized reality. Finding how all this relates to the "yellow house" on Benefit Street and Emmie and the ghouls and the Bailiff. It all fits. It's just a matter of understanding how.
It has been confirmed that I will be a guest at the 2005 World Horror Convention in NYC (April 7-10). Note that I have only agreed to take part in programming on the 8th and 9th, Friday and Saturday, from noon until midnight. I hope that some of you will be able to make the convention so I can put faces with screen names. I'll do a short reading and a signing, as well as panels. Also, I might try to scehdule an off-site signing somewhere in Manhattan, but my time will be very tight, so that's very iffy.
I also did a lot of stuff that needed doing around the house, things I've been putting off too long. Last night, we read Skin, watched X-Play, and I started playing Psi-Ops, which has the potential to be a good game.
My thanks to Iliadawry for pointing me to The Dionaea House: Correspondence from Mark Condry, which ate up a couple of hours of mine and Spooky's time last night. It's not bad, but draws a little too obviously from House of Leaves and is a little too direct and rushed. This thing might have been brilliant had it been drawn out over the course of a year. Ultimately, it's more interesting as a new direction for fiction, but you might want to have a look. There are a few chilling moments (and hey, it's free).
The comments to my first post yesterday put me in mind (as I was saying) of a long night in New York City with Jennifer, Voltaire, and Lisa Feuer. Must of been back on May 2001, just before I wrote "Onion." After some Ukranian coffeehouse, we wound up at the Milk Bar, and by three a.m. or so, despite my drunkeness, I'd come to understand that Voltaire knows more words for the male member than anyone else alive. The evening is a blur of liquor and penis slang. I remember a comment about "riding the baloney pony" got me laughing so hard I almost puked. By this point, the bartender was bringing us free drinks, just so Voltaire would keep it up (so to...uh...speak).
I think this coming purge, Purge II, will include a lot of CDS, along with the books and action figures. I keep pulling CDs off the shelf and asking myself, "Why the frell do I still have that?
This whole silly thing about Paris Hilton's hacked Sidekick has only served to confirm my belief that if Britney Spears, Anna Nicole, and Christina Aguilera should happen to die tomorrow in a head-on collision with a UPS delivery truck, Ms. Hilton would indeed be the trashiest human left alive. Ugh.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Continuing my research on Dogtown Commons, a Cape Ann, MA ghost town which figures prominently in Daughter of Hounds. I was especially taken with this photo:
My head is so filled with Dogtown, with feral beasts, cosmic misdirections, angry old women with terrible secrets and desires, the "past" and the present, crumbling cellar walls...
Now I've got a mind full of wicked designs
I've got a non-stop hole in my head—imagination
I'm in a building that has two thousand floors, and when they all fall down
I think you know it's you they're fallin' for
I can't forget I am a sole architect
I built the shadows here
I built the growlin' voice I fear
You add it up, but to do better than that
You've got to follow me...
And so forth.
I heard the news of Hunter S. Thompson's death from Oneirophrenia last night. I know this winter is no more filled with death than any other during my life has been, but I have to admit that it's felt like it. And we all keep moving, regardless.
Oh, and Sandra Dee died, also.
Yesterday was more productive than the day before. I did 840 words on Chapter Three, and at least 550 of them are worth hanging onto. The rest likely needs reworking. I may have to spend today doing research before I can proceed.
We read more of Skin last night. There is so much brilliance in this book, I'd forgotten; no wonder it mesmerized me so when I first read in in 1993.
After making my entry yesterday, I realized that there's one bit of genital slang that doesn't rub me the wrong way (so to speak) — cock. It just works, the way all the others just don't. It's somehow appropriately abrupt, blunt, solid, and doesn't strike me as something that seems to have been designed to intentionally provoke disgust or laughter. It has a nice glottal quality. Anyway, one thing I need to do today is pick through Slang and Euphemism: A Dictionary of Oathes, Curses, Insults, Ethnic Slurs, Sexual Slang and Metaphors, Drug Talk, College Lingo, and Related Matters by Richard A. Spears (2nd revised ed.; Signet, 1991) in an effort to locate a few more euphonic words. Of course, obviously, one could write stories wherein the more atrocious words are the ones that must be used, the only ones suited — I've certainly done it enough times myself. But I'm trying to build a certain language for this book. Bill Schafer (Subterranean Press) asked yesterday if he could read the first piece, and I told him no, because it isn't that finished. There's still more polishing to be done.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Yesterday was an utter waste. An artist, of whatever stripe, has only so many days, to write or paint or dance or whatever, and each one wasted is that much that will never be accomplished. All Nine of the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing may lead an author to waste a day. The wasting of time is the end result of most transgressions. Yesterday, I courted both Sloth and Despair. Today, I have to try to do better.
Nothing new was written on Chapter Three, but I spent about two hours polishing the first vignette for Frog Toes and Tentacles. I can only hope that the readers who've asked for this are prepared for Weird Erotica. This will not be pretty-boy-on-pretty-boy action, or straight-up het sex, or butch-femme domination ? nothing even 1/100th so vanilla. Indeed, I suspect only three or four of these pieces will actually have a sexual act included. Working on this now, I've realized how painfully dull that would be, how repetitive. "Oh, and now they screw!" Yawn. This whole endevour has been complicated by my disdain for slang words used for genitalia, words which I tend to find ugly and unpoetic. They lie upon the ear like lumps of cooling puke. The Latin words are rarely any better. So, a rock and a hard place, not to put too fine a point on it. We shall see.
Having managed to rid myself of hundreds of books in the last move, I have been inspired to at least attempt to further winnow away at these largely ignored stacks. A great percentage of them are nothing but a stone about my neck. I may even go so far as to get rid of at least half the action figures, which I've managed to cease buying entirely. I'll keep a few ? all my dinos, the Farscape stuff, a couple of the Sleepy Hollow pieces, the Where the Wild Things Are figs, maybe Lara Croft in her scuba gear, but the rest, I think, will go. Even pretty clutter is still clutter.
Last night, distracted, disgusted with myself, I seemed able to concentrate only on bits of things. The last hour of The Day of the Jackal. The first forty-five minutes of Grand Prix. The middle hour or so of The Fellowship of the Ring. Reading was out of the question. I did speak briefly with Peter Straub, about 9:30 or so, but that really only made me miss the company of other writers.
The weather is still dreary. The high's supposed to be 65F tomorrow, but with rain, and then more cold to follow. But the Narcissus are blooming in our yard. This I should take as a sign of hope. The winter is dying, like a rotten old whore. I should go out and dance on her agonies.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
I hardly slept last night. And this morning, I feel like it.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,184 words on Chapter Three of Daughter of Hounds. Also, the first of the vignettes for Frogs Toes and Tentacles was finished, a siren, so it was, at least, a very prolific day. But the writing filled me with doubt. Even as I begin, finally, to see the whole of DoH, I wonder if I can pull it off this time. Trying to balance the two central characters — Emmie Silvey and Soldier — and two secondary characters — Deacon and Sadie. Not to mention the tertiary and more minor characters, and the difficulties of once again having to write a sequel than is not a sequel. I'm very, very tired.
The cold weather isn't helping. I just looked at a 10-day forcast, and my skin's still crawling. Like most cities, Atlanta is an ugly place in February.
Set me aflame and cast me free,
Away, you wretched world of tethers...
We must have our prayers, even those of us who pray to no one and nothing. Ena sn'ial, Hallelujah, Hosanna, Ahmet.
Here's a wicked little thing. "We have observed an object only 20 kilometres across, on the other side of our galaxy, releasing more energy in a 10th of a second than the Sun emits in 100,000 years." I think something was having bad dreams.
Last night, we rented Saw, which was both astoundingly dull and moronic beyond all my expectations. This is what happens when filmmakers borrow the best elements of good films, but, being hacks, have no idea how to assemble their patchwork creation. Really. This film was so dull, I was actually grateful when it's namesake tool was finally employed in the amputation we were supposed to have spent the entire film dreading. At least then I knew it was almost over. I think this one gets three seconds in the microwave before it goes back to the rental place. Afterwards, we tried playing Kingdom Under Fire: The Crusaders. Strike two. Someone should suffer for birthing a game this frelling bad. Finally, we gave up, went to bed, and read The Lorax (which has considerably more in the way of tension than Saw).
Okay. Blah, blah, blah. Time to make the doughnuts.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Lyrics to a song by Harry Chapin, "Dogtown," which I only just found yesterday and which happen to touch on much of the same ground as Daughter of Hounds (and Low Red Moon, for that matter). Read aloud, it reminds me a lot of Poe's "The Bells" and "Annabelle Lee." Nice...
Up in Massachusetts, there's a little spit of land.
The men who make the maps, yes, they call the place Cape Ann.
The men who do the fishing call it Gloucester Harbor Sound,
But the women left behind, they call the place Dogtown.
The men go out for whaling, past the breakers and the fogs.
The women stay home waiting, they're protected by the dogs.
A tough old whaler woman who had seen three husbands drown,
Polled the population, and she named the place Dogtown.
There's all these grey-faced women in their black widow's gowns,
Living in this graveyard granite town.
Yeah, you soon learn there's many more than one way to drown;
That's while going to the dogs here in Dogtown.
And she speaks: My father was a merchant all in the Boston fief.
When my husband came and asked him for my hand.
But little did I know then that a Gloucester whaler's wife
Marries but the sea salt and the sand.
He took me up to Dogtown the day I was a bride.
We had ten days together before he left my side.
He's the first mate of a whaling ship,
The keeper of the log.
He said, "Farewell, my darling, I'm going to leave you with my dog."
And I have seen the splintered timbers of a hundred shattered hulls,
Known the silence of the granite and the screeching of the gulls,
I've heard that crazy widow Cather walk the harbor as she raves
At the endless rolling whisper of the waves.
Sitting by the fireside, the embers slowly die.
Is it a sign of weakness when a woman wants to cry?
The dog is closely watching, the fire glints in his eye.
No use to go to sleep this early, no use to even try.
My blood beats like a woman's,
I've got a woman's breast and thighs.
But where am I to offer them?
To the ocean or the skies?
Living with this silent dog
All the moments of my life,
He has been my only husband;
Am I a widow, or his wife?
Yes, it's a Dogtown, and it's a fog town,
And there's nothing around 'cept the sea-pounding granite ground
And this black midnight horror of a hound.
I'm standing on this craggy cliff,
My eyes fixed on the sea.
Six months past, when his ship was due,
I'm a widow to be.
For liking this half living with the lonely and the fog,
You need the bastard of the mating of a woman and a dog.
And I have seen the splintered timbers of a hundred shattered hulls,
Known the silence of the granite and the screeching of the gulls,
I've heard that crazy widow Cather walk the harbor as she raves
At the endless rolling whisper of the waves.
At the endless rolling whisper of the waves.
At the endless rolling whisper of the waves.
Of course, I should have noted yesterday, when posting the lyrics to the Burl Ives' song, that in the Great State of Georgia and elsewhere across the US o' A, marriage between two insects is illegal. Might not seem fair, I know, but we must protect our Christian Family Values, and everyone knows bugs are godless pagan idolators.
Except for grasshoppers, who lean, almost without exception, towards Unitarianism.
Yesterday, I allowed myself to be the willing tralk of one of the greatest of the Nine — Distraction. I was distracted for hours, when I should have been working on Chapter Three. Distraction is so alluring, so dangerous, because it understands that many writers, especially those of us pressed into literature in an effort to earn our keep, are constantly seeking Distraction. Almost anything will do. I can spend two hours just counting and recounting paper clips. An hour can pass quickly and entirely wordlessly when doodling in my engagement calendar. The frivilous ways of Distraction are a terrible wonder to behold, boys and girls and gender-free human things! Of course, all was not lost. Late in the day, I gathered my resolve and wrote the first 700 or so words on the first of the ten vignettes. No peeking.
As for Daughter of Hounds, though, I managed no more than proofing the first three thousand words (roughly) of Chapter Three. So far, so good, though there seems to be a book within a book — Sadie Jasper's role within the whole — and worse yet, a book within a book within a book — the history of odd goings-on in Massachusetts that Sadie is writing. This is the sort of thing I must strive to keep under control, or I'll have a 900-page doorstop on my hands, something I won't finish until Xmas 2008 or so. Frell that. You'll find another of the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing (of which there are nine) in there, in the writing of doorstops.
Spooky and I are reading Kathe Koja's Skin, as it's the book I've been asked to write about for Steve Jones' Horror: Another 100 Best Books. We've reached page 73. It seems unbelievable that this book has been allowed to go out of print. That is, of course, the fate of almost all novels, but it galls me, nonetheless.
The guiche is healing very nicely, thank you.
Okay. My mind is turning to darker things, so I should end this here. Keep it light, Kiernan. Let the sun shine in. Smile, you whore of words.
Of course, I should have noted yesterday, when posting the lyrics to the Burl Ives' song, that in the Great State of Georgia and elsewhere across the US o' A, marriage between two insects is illegal. Might not seem fair, I know, but we must protect our Christian Family Values, and everyone knows bugs are godless pagan idolators.
Except for grasshoppers, who lean, almost without exception, towards Unitarianism.
Yesterday, I allowed myself to be the willing tralk of one of the greatest of the Nine — Distraction. I was distracted for hours, when I should have been working on Chapter Three. Distraction is so alluring, so dangerous, because it understands that many writers, especially those of us pressed into literature in an effort to earn our keep, are constantly seeking Distraction. Almost anything will do. I can spend two hours just counting and recounting paper clips. An hour can pass quickly and entirely wordlessly when doodling in my engagement calendar. The frivilous ways of Distraction are a terrible wonder to behold, boys and girls and gender-free human things! Of course, all was not lost. Late in the day, I gathered my resolve and wrote the first 700 or so words on the first of the ten vignettes. No peeking.
As for Daughter of Hounds, though, I managed no more than proofing the first three thousand words (roughly) of Chapter Three. So far, so good, though there seems to be a book within a book — Sadie Jasper's role within the whole — and worse yet, a book within a book within a book — the history of odd goings-on in Massachusetts that Sadie is writing. This is the sort of thing I must strive to keep under control, or I'll have a 900-page doorstop on my hands, something I won't finish until Xmas 2008 or so. Frell that. You'll find another of the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing (of which there are nine) in there, in the writing of doorstops.
Spooky and I are reading Kathe Koja's Skin, as it's the book I've been asked to write about for Steve Jones' Horror: Another 100 Best Books. We've reached page 73. It seems unbelievable that this book has been allowed to go out of print. That is, of course, the fate of almost all novels, but it galls me, nonetheless.
The guiche is healing very nicely, thank you.
Okay. My mind is turning to darker things, so I should end this here. Keep it light, Kiernan. Let the sun shine in. Smile, you whore of words.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
I did 1,044 words on Chapter Three of Daughter of Hounds yesterday.
The case for extant life on Mars is looking better and better. I am heartened by news of "methane signatures and other signs of possible biological activity." I shall be eagerly awaiting publication of the article in Nature.
Yesterday, reading a library copy of Whittier's The Supernaturalism of New England (1847), I discovered that, at some point, someone has written "Christian Science explains witchcraft." on the blank backside of the last page. Oh, I adore idiots who write in library books, especially idiots who use library books as a chance to express their opinions. Anyway, my first reaction was, okay, sure it does. So does real science. So does Christianity. So does Wicca. So do various schools of psychology. These explanations are generally contradictory, of course, but they are explanations nonetheless. There is so little meaning in the statement — "Christian Science explains witchcraft." — that it's almost a tautology. Then, on page 107, in the same hand, I find written, "Christian Science overcomes and vanishes powers and claims of witchcraft." In another place, the same person has written the exact same statement over again, then scratched out "Christian Science" and written in "Jesus Christ." I shall do the polite thing and assume the idiot couldn't help him- or herself, that it was a religious mania, a compulsion beyond control.
Here in Atlanta, the weather has turned cold again. And my mood has fallen with the temperatures. It makes me grateful I got out of the house on Monday and Tuesday, instead of sitting here writing.
I learned last night that the Dresden Dolls will be opening for NIN on at least some of the dates on the new tour. The new NIN album, With Teeth, will be released May 3rd, I think.
Lastly, I've been getting a fair number of inquiries as to where and how I acquire absinthe. It's easy. Just follow the link. My personal faves are Mari Mayans and La Fée. And no, I've never had any trouble with customs.
Once a lonely caterpillar sat and cried
To a sympathetic beetle by his side
I've got nobody to hug
I'm such an ugily bug
Then a spider and a dragonfly replied
If you're serious and want to win a bride
Come along with us, to the glorious annual ugly bug ball
Come on let's crawl (gotta crawl gotta crawl)
To the ugly bug ball (to the ball to the ball)
And a happy time we'll have there, one and all and the ugly bug ball
While the crickets click their cricky melodies
All the ants were fancy dancing with the fleas
Then up from under the ground
The worms came squirming around
Oh, they danced until their legs were nearly lame
Every little crawling creature you could name
Everyone was glad
What a time they hade
They were so happy they came
Come on let's crawl (gotta crawl gotta crawl)
To the ugly bug ball (to the ball to the ball)
And a happy time we'll have there, one and all and the ugly bug ball
The our caterpillar saw a pretty queen
She was beautiful and yellow black and green
He said would you care to dance
Their dancing lead to romance
Then she sat upon his caterpillar knee
And he gave his caterpillar queen a squeeze
Soon they'll honeymoon
Build a big cocoon
Thanks to the ugly bug ball
Come on let's crawl (gotta crawl gotta crawl)
To the ugly bug ball (to the ball to the ball)
And a happy time we'll have there, one and all and the ugly bug ball
(Sorry. I just couldn't help myself.)
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
How the frell can February be half over? Sheesh.
I've been wasting time dithering over whether or not to explain what I was going on about yesterday, the Grand Disappointment. I even wrote two paragraphs containing said explanation. But now I think it's best just to let it go. As Dorothy Gale was fond of saying, "It can't be helped now." Or as Samwise Gamgee was fond of saying, "There's nothing else for it." Move along. Don't dwell on the disappointments, but do what has to be done. Work harder to avoid future disappointments. Discretion is the better part of valour. Don't be an asshole. And so forth. Frell it.
Turn the page.
I think I have a title for the erotica volume. I think I shall call it Frog Toes and Tentacles, because a) it seems appropriate, b) Spooky thinks frog toes are sexy, and c) it sounds like the title to a book of Stephen Jay Gould essays. It's also better than the title Spooky suggested a few nights ago — The Best Little Whorehouse in Innsmouth.
Today, I go back to the absinthe bottle and back to Chapter Three and Sadie Jasper.
Too mopey and distracted to do much else with yesterday, we went back to Fernbank for another look at the frog exhibit. So, the afternoon was filled with the peeping and croaking of a couple dozen species of frogs and toads. My favorites, I think, are the Golden Mantella Frog (Mantella aurantiaca; Madagascar), incredibly tiny and bright yellow, and the Waxy Monkey Frog (Phyllomedusa sauvagii; South America), which lacks sticky toepads but has opposable thumbs (hence the name). Here's a photo of the latter:
We also saw the Imax film about bugs, which was very good and has introduced me to Burl Ives' delightful "The Ugly Bug Ball."
The Marvel project is still on, by the way. There was a long delay due to contract negotiations, but that seems to be winding up. Details TBA.
"Cheer-up,-old-boy,-I'll-pull-you-through" look, which was all whales. So, call him the Hyena Whale, if you please. His voracity is well known and from the circumstance that the inner angles of his lips are curved upwards, he carries an everlasting Mephistophelean grin on his face. This whale averages some sixteen or eighteen feet in length.
I have no idea what any of that means. It arrived at my old AOL address a couple of days ago. It may be code, trying to awaken my conscious mind to the Matrix, and it may have only been a misdirected e-mail. But it was so marveously weird, I thought I'd share.
No problems with the guiche. It hurts, but that's what it's supposed to be doing at this point.
Last night, I finished both the Blackwood biography and The Lost Dinosaurs of Egypt. I strongly reccommend the latter for anyone with an interest in the exciting new dinosaur finds coming out of Africa. Oh, how this book made me miss field work! Reading about the work at the Bahariya Oasis and Gebel el Dist, about the discovery of the enormous titanosaur Paralititan stromeri, the puzzling-out that the Cenomanian-aged sediments of the oasis had once been a mangrove swamp at the edge of the Tethys Sea — wonderful stuff. Much better than all this writing bollocks.
Leh'agvoi has finished the second page of the Nebari.net winter manga special thingy. It's looking good.
And I have prattled on for much too long. Time to speak with the Fairy.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
There's not much worth saying about yesterday. It was one of those Very Bad Days that writers have to accept as inevitable, unavoidable, part and parcel of the whole gig. It was a day of Grand Disappointment. The sort of day that the villains (Boo! Hiss!) in the story of my life gloat over "in bitter watches of the night." But now it's done, that day, and I have to move on to the next thing, so I can get to the thing after that and so on. Yes, I'm being very vague. I'll try to be more specific tomorrow.
I'm in much less pain from the guiche than I was this time yesterday. The healing is going well so far. No sign of infection. No regrets.
Spooky and I visited Fernbank yesterday (I did limp a bit) to see the new frog exhibit. That was nice, a brief respite from the Very Bad Day, even though much of the exhibit deals with the soaring extinction rate among frogs. But I already knew all that, about the recent mysterious disappearance of entire species and the role of UV light from the damaged ozone layer and so forth, so I was prepared for the downside.
I need to be writing, but, after yesterday, I need a little more time yet. It's a shame, because Sunday went so well, and I thought I was clear of the wall.
There were a couple of things I was going to write about today: Algernon Blackwood and the unfortunate way that contemporary fiction has been forced away from displays of earnestness; how annoyed and sick-unto-yacking I get over people who whine and whimper about how VNV Nation and hair extensions have "ruined goth," because, you know, Heaven forbid a scene should actually evolve, that it might be a very different, but equally valid thing in 2005 than it was in 1985. Stuff like that. But I'm not up to it now. Maybe later. It's actually warm outside, and I think I'd rather be out there than in here, snarking on LJ.
Monday, February 14, 2005
This morning, the full discomfort of what I have done to myself — this time — is making itself known. I feel as through a glass spike studded with sewing needles as been shoved deep into my rectum and given a few good twists. Thanks for sharing, I know. You're welcome. Anytime. Of course, the possibilty exists that what I'm experiencing right now is not the full discomfort, not the fullest discomfort. Let's not dwell on that.
Yesterday, two glasses of Mari Mayans absinthe did what all my vain attempts at concentration could not. What my determination was entirely unable to do. I wrote an amazing 1,594 words on Chapter Three of Daughter of Hounds. I also managed to salvage, after extensive rewrite, the 152 words from Friday, so the total for the chapter so far stands at 1,716 words. The discrepency is accounted for by the rewrite. Anyway, what came yesterday felt right, and Sadie and Emmie wound up playing Scrabble after all.
Today, I won't be writing anything. Today Spooky and I have plans.
There's some good news for Farscape, and good news for those people who wanted to watch it but didn't have the Sci-Fi Channel or access to the DVDs. Beginning this fall, Farscape will go into syndication on Superstation WGN (Chicago), which reaches some 65 million homes in the US.
Okay. That it's for today. Happy Potentially Most Depressing and Sappy Holiday of the Year Day.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Despite my initial misgivings, we had a very good day out yesterday. The weather was almost warm, hovering right around 60F, just a little nip left in the air, very sunny. Another ten degrees would have made me happy, but it was good enough. And I finally had a piercing done that I've been talking about having done for the last year, one that has required the marshalling of considerable resolve, the female guiche or perineal piercing (warning: that link is not worksafe). A new dimension of pain has been opened to me, but, also, I think, a new and very welcomed dimsension of focus. The pain of the actual act of piercing wasn't so bad, but it looks as though the healing is going to make up for it. I shall be writing from bed today and tomorrow (and perhaps Tuesday, as well). Afterwards, after the piercing, we had extremely hot Thai, so, between the pain and the peppers, I was tripping on endorphins by the time we got home last night. We watched Twenty Four Hour Party People, which was a perfect follow-up to The Velvet Goldmine and The Wall and which you all should see.
And today I will have absinthe while I write, fresh piercing or no.
I am desperate for that loosening of the imagination that absinthe often brings me. Though, I'm not really having a lot of trouble with story at the moment, but with words. I have the story in my head (I have several stories in my head), but translating it into mere words is proving difficult.
I think maybe Emmie and Sadie are playing Scrabble, but I'm not certain.
This e-mail from yesterday (or the day before):
I have a quick question and it's nothing intellectual based on your books, so please forgive me. This is purely a curiosity question. I was reading your post today and you mentioned your broken Zero keychain, and I was wondering if this is in anyway related to the Smashing Pumpkins or Billy Corgan? Any of their memorabilia?
Though I am a fan of the Smashing Pumpkins, this was Zero from The Nightmare Before Xmas. His head came off. When I switched my keys over to Grover, I couldn't stand the thought of throwing Zero's head out (his body had already been tossed), so I stashed it in one of my desk drawers. One of those drawers meant to hold writing-stuff that's filled with all manner of distinctly non-writing junk. Some of that junk has been in there since 1994, I dren you not. Anyway, no, not that Zero, the other Zero.
And that reminds me, Spooky and I are still planning the New Zero costume for me, the robotic yeti thing. There's just been so little time for such things.
I suppose that enough for today. I have to try to crack Chapter Three. If I can get a good couple thousand words between me and the beginning of the thing, I can rediscover the lost momentum.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Yesterday, in a hyperagitated state of Extreme Determination, I wrote 152 words on Chapter Three. I may not be able to use any of them. So, it was almost as bad a waste as Thursday. I did come to a fairly important realization regarding the plot, and that's nice and all, better than nothing, even necessary, but it doesn't increase the word count. I'm perfectly happy to let these things unfold at their own pace. My publishers aren't so patient.
Today, I should make myself sit here, should stare at the screen until the words finally drip from my mind. But I haven't left the house in eight days. Spooky says I need to get out. So, probably, I'll get out.
Was there anything else about yesterday worth mentioning? I spoke with Peter Straub via e-mail, and with Neil, and with Mike Everhart, a paleontologist at the Sternberg Museum of Natural History in Ft. Hays, Kansas. I spent about half an hour reading the lyrics to early REM songs, realizing again what an important influence the band has had on my writing, particularly all the pre-Out of Time albums. I read William Blake for a while, because, the last few years, Blake's poetry has often seen me through the rough spots. Hence, I have tentatively titled Chapter Three of Daughter of Hounds "NIght in the Land of Dreams." Last night, Spooky and I were in the mood for a certain sort of movie, so we watched The Velvet Goldmine and The Wall, which, we learned, make a pretty good double-bill. Oh, I made some more notes, this time in red ink.
It's so tempting to set the novel aside and write the short story that's in my head. That would be irresponsible.
Crap. It's almost noon-thirty. Four more minutes and it will be. I fear this thing called Outside, but Spooky says it's good for me. I'm not so sure. Too many unknown variables, I think. And what the hell is that bright thing in the sky?
Friday, February 11, 2005
Yesterday was, by and large, a write-off, a waste, a loss. Then, my frelling brain finally decided to kick in about 1:30 a.m., hit overdrive almost instantly, and I had to take an extra Ambien to switch it off again so I could get to sleep (about four, I think).
Did I do anything constructive yesterday? Not really. Mostly, I raved and fretted. I did dig out an old issue of the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology that I'd missed actually reading because of the move from Birmingham to Atlanta back in '02. I read "A new species of gigantic mosasaur from the Late Cretaceous of Isreal" and "The osteology of Masiakasaurus knopfleri, a small abelisauroid (Dinosauria: Theropoda) from the Late Cretaceous of Madagascar" and "The first mosasaur (Squamata) from the Late Cretaceous of Turkey." Nice, but it didn't get anything written.
I suppose I should thank the people who showed their support for Sadie, though I did not exactly mean to give the impression that I was the one who didn't love her. I mean, anyone might have been up for that pink slip. It was nothing personal. If Sadie had gotten one, Deacon would have been close behind her, and the story woluld have changed. Emmie would not be Emmie Silvey but Emmie Someone Else. Soldier would have also been someone else. I was just picking on Sadie because I have to deal with her at the start of Chapter Three. Mostly, I was complaining about poor book sales, which ought to have nothing whatsoever to do with the writing of books, but which actually do, as it turns out. Someone like Robert Jordan may puke up any number of The Chronicles of [insert Tolkien ripoff here], because he has the sales to back him up. He has the pablum-loving public, bless 'em, to buy his books. And I care not if Jordan is reading this (though that seems highly unlikely). He writes shamelessly derivative pablum, and he writes it for people who read pablum, and he surely makes enough money off it that he ought not be bothered by me telling him so. If he is, bothered by it, I mean, he can find my e-mail address.
Pablum (and money and hate and centrifugal force) makes the world go round. La-la-la-de-dah.
My copies of the hardback of Low Red Moon are on their way to me via UPS. They will come today or Monday. It already looks like a warehouse around here.
The cold. There is a great deal of it. A bitterly cold day turned into a perfectly frigid night which gave way to another bitterly cold day. But we are promised a high of 60F tomorrow, a good ten degrees inside my comfort zone, so I only have to stick it out a little longer. I cannot imagine how I will ever beat this thing to the point that I could live in the northeast, as I would like to do. At this point, Belize or Greece might be more realistic options.
Spooky gave me a cute Grover keychain yesterday. My old Zero keychain broke a few weeks ago, and I've been carrying my keys around on a loop of dried alpaca instestine.
Are you all aware of Uncle Peter's new volume of Lovecraft? Yes, it's true. The American Library finally got off it's eema and devoted a volume to Lovecraft. I'm ordering mine today. You should do likewise. I'm not so sure, though, about Amazon.com's claim that Lovecraft and Theodore Roosevelt are "better together." I'm not sure about that, a'tall.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
It's here. No, not the cold. I mean, yes, yes, the cold's here, too. But I mean the despair that comes upon returning to the ms. for a novel that I've been forced to ignore for a couple of weeks while I attended to other, less grandiose writerly obligations. This morning, Daughter of Hounds terrifies me. I cannot imagine how this book might be written, how I will make it work. It's too big. It's too complicated. It's too weird. It's too different. Blah.
Yesterday, I almost resolved to remove Sadie Jasper from the book. In her place, I would insert a new character without Sadie's history, without her ties to Low Red Moon and Threshold, some woman who'd never been attacked by Narcissa Snow and almost lost an arm escaping. Some woman like that. As with Murder of Angels, one of the greatest difficulties with this book is writing a novel that simultaneously addresses my desire to continue a story and b) manages also to work as a stand-alone novel. I never thought I'd be able to do it with MoA, but now I've had all these critics tell me that I did, so I apparently can do it. But it seems an even more difficult thing to pull off with Daughter of Hounds.
Of course, were I only just a little more popular this wouldn't be an issue. It's not that people don't read sequels, it's just that they only read the same sequels that everyone else happens to be reading. So, my sequels have to be antichameleons. They have to look like twigs and fallen leaves and stone and stand-alone novels so they will be noticed. So they won't be passed over because it's too much trouble to go back and read the book before.
I spent most of yesterday making notes for Chapter Three, which, with luck I'll begin today. And, as I said, I thought very seriously about giving Sadie her pink slip, so sorry, but you just haven't scored that high with our target audience. At the end of the day, and the beginning and middle, too, this is a business, a busy-ness, and surely you understand. There are plenty of other books out there. Perhaps you'll find a place in one of them. You understand. I'm a slave to the vox populi and sales figures and return rates and so on and so forth. No? Well, let me put it bluntly, then — No one loves you, Sadie. Is that clear?
But. It would be wrong for her not to be in this story. Because this is what happens next. I know that. So, Sadie stays. It makes things harder, much harder, but she stays. Maybe the book after next, the novel I write once Daughter of Hounds is done, maybe that will be the True Stand Alone that appeals to all those people who find me so unappealing (or, more likely, who simply haven't noticed that I exist as a literary construct), the book that housewives in Ohio and Wal-Mart shoppers in Kansas and retirees in Miami will be rushing out to buy. I'll be as popular as Nora Roberts. It is a popularity contest, just like high school. It is about pleasing the masses (and Soylent Green is people, and Vader is Luke's father, and Bruce Willis is a ghost, and Thomas Jerome Newton is a Martian). The bean counters are gods. If you think otherwise, you probably have a day job. And you'd better keep it.
Yeah, okay. You're right. That was sour and unsightly.
Set me aflame and cast me free,
Away, you wretched world of tethers...
Move along, move along.
I did find a photo for my Italian publisher yesterday. I did do that much.
Who knows what you have spoken to the darkness. In bitter watches of the night. When all your life seems to shrink. The walls of your bower closing in about you. A hatch to trammel some wild thing.
I truly love those lines, from the screenplay for The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Grima speaking to Eowyn. If only I could write lines like that. Screw you, Nora Roberts. Sometimes, the good stuff gets through.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
So, I've spoken with Subterranean Press again. Here's how those who participated in the poll (or posted about the erotica question to my phorum or e-mailed me about it) — those who have dibs — should go about reserving a copy of the limited, leatherbound edition of the volume (I have no title yet). Simply e-mail Bill Schafer at subpress@earthlink.net, tell him you voted, and ask him to hold a copy for you. That's all it takes. Stick something like "erotica" in the subject line of your e-mail.
An inspiration to Lovecraft and backdrop of the superb 2001 thriller, Session 9, the Kirkdale Building of the old Danvers Mental Hospital in Danvers, Massachussetts, is being threatened with the wrecking ball. To help preserve historic structure, click here and sign the e-petition.
My thanks to Emerson "Oz" Hart for bringing Virgnia Hey's White Flower Lei site to my attention. These are aromatherapy products handmade by Hey (who, I should not have to tell you, played Zhaan on Farscape), and there's even a 30%-off sale in progress. Please check it out.
Already, I have grown inordinately fond of my Lovecraft rat.
The cold is coming back. High twenties tomorrow night. I wish I could find a way not to dread the cold. I've gone ahead and made preparations for the return of the mammoths, musk oxen, and whatever Pleistocene stragglers they might bring along with them. I have grown very weary of their all night poker games.
I have some details about the erotica volume. There will be two editions from Subterranean Press, a trade and a limited. The trade will be clothbound with an embossed cover instead of a dust jacket (rather old-fashioned; I've been wanting to do a book like this for ages). The trade printing will be 500-600 copies. The numbered limited edition will be bound in leather and probably consist of no more than 150-200 copies. A copy of this edition will be reserved for every participant in the LJ poll, if she or he should wish to purchase one (and it doesn't matter if you answered "yes" or "no"). The trade will likely be priced at $20, the limited at $45. Both editions will be signed and illustrated. There might be one vignette in the limited that isn't included in the trade (maybe). I'll be signing the contracts today.
Yesterday I worked on "Bradbury Weather." I'm reading this piece too much, overreading. I'm afraid now I might have been right about the problem near the ending after all, though it sounded fine on Sunday. Argh. I made a few small tweaks to To Charles Fort, With Love, then e-mailed the ms. to subpress, and it's now with their design person. This book means a lot to me. I will be fretting about it at every stage. I finally caught up with my e-mail. I informed my agent that, despite what my contract with Penguin might say, there's no way I'll be delivering the first half of Daughter of Hounds by March 1st. I suspect my editor is already cognizant of this, as I only just sent him Chapter Two. If I'm very lucky, I'll finish Chapter Four by March 1st, which will be a third of the book, at best. I hate missing deadlines, but sometimes that's the way it goes. I have to let this book come at its own pace. It's not as if I have a choice in the matter.
As it is, I'm having to resist the urge to begin work on the story that occurred to me on Sunday, the new sf story. I'll make some notes, then start Chapter Three of DoH instead. I'll do some relevant reading. I'm not sure when I'll actually have time to write this one. Next month, perhaps.
I'm enjoying The Starlight Man, Mike Ashley's biography of Algernon Blackwood, very much. This passage has been floating about in my head all morning, a bit from one of Blackwood's letters to one of his publisher's, regarding his novel, The Wave: an Egyptian Aftermath (1916):
I have tried to develop an interesting variant of the usual reincarnation theory, viz, that the soul's advance takes the spiral form so common everywhere in Nature. At any given point, that is, the soul finds itself exactly over a point passed earlier. Seen however from a higher point of view the earlier situation is understood and its lesson mastered.
It's an intriguing model, though I lack Blackwood's optimism.
Also, reading a number of negative reviews of the first production of his play/musical, The Starlight Express (adapted from The Prisoner of Fairyland), I was struck by a familiar refrain. The critic for The Standard best sums it up in this one line — Everybody loves a fantasy, but it should not be so subtle as to elude the understanding. That comment brought strong recollections of comments people have made about Silk and Threshold, in particular. The "Uh, what happened?" crowd. The ones who clamour always for exposition and resolution. The reviewer for The Era wrote of The Starlight Express — Unfortunately the authors require an audience for their play gifted with an imagination at least equal to their own. This seems to have been written in all seriousness. And I realized that it was the same problem I've had with a lot of readers. I expect you to bring your own imagination to the matters at hand, and I expect you to then use it. Honestly, it never occurred to me to do otherwise. I mean, isn't that the point, that interplay of imaginations? Otherwise, literature really is quite pointless, and film should take its place. Without the imagination of the reader, I see now, the ending of Silk (along with much of its beginning and middle) is an utter mystery. Without the reader's own willingness to play these games of fancy that I have laid out, most of Threshold makes no sense at all. I do not write for a passive audience. I wouldn't know how to do so. I can't help people who lack imagination of their own and turn to another for a surrogate. There's an interesting idea — imagination vampires.
Frell. The day is getting away from me. I may make another entry this evening...
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
So, I have 114 interested readers and a very enthusiastic publisher. Therefore, I have decided to proceed with the erotica project. I'll probably be writing these pieces in my "spare time" over the next month or two. I'll post details about the book very soon, possibly later today, as soon as everything's agreed upon. I can tell you that the book will consist of probably ten vignettes of approximately 2,000 words each, and there will be an illustrator. As for the pros and cons of sex as a story element, I know when it's best to shut my mouth. Well, no, that's really not true, If it were, I never would have started this in the first place. But, in closing, I did want to quote this bit from my discussion phorum, because I don't think I could have said it better myself:
I had always felt that in Caitlin's work, it [sex] was unnecessary, and may even be ruinous. As she says, she's not writing things just to frighten, but the things she writes are frightening. More than that, though, they are finely crafted tales of tension. Having that sort of release inside of the story could lead to it being undone, the tension breaking and we, the readers, finding out that the wizard is really just a guy with a balloon, after all...
Meanwhile...
I seem to be getting a headache.
Yesterday, we proofed the afterwords for To Charles Fort, With Love. Today, I really will send the ms. to Subterranean Press. Spooky and I finally read through "Bradbury Weather," which I'd not read since late September. I like this story a great deal. It might even be my best sf story yet, and the ending may not have the problems that I feared it did. I also signed 100 copies of Silk for Bill Schafer. Heaven only knows what he intends to do with them all. So, yesterday was a day of details.
Today will probably be the same.
Daughter of Hounds is growing quite impatient with me. I'll be back to work on it on Thursday, at the latest. Today, I see I have to send a bio and photograph to my lit agent that she can forward to my Italian publisher. Maybe I'll send one of the blood-bath photos. The weather today is still warm, but clouds came in late yesterday. We sat on the front porch as they hid the sun. It's very nice to be able to sit on one's front porch with bare feet in February.
Last night, I read a couple of chapters of the Blackwood biography, then Spooky and I discovered we could search LJ by states, and, better yet, by countries, and proceeded to spend two whole hours reading the blogs of teenage girls and geeky boys in Thailand and Indonesia. Someday, I'll have to tell you all about Ruru and Chichi, whom I now adore.
A new story occured to me day before yesterday. An sf story. At first I thought it could be one of the erotica pieces, but then it grew quiet suddenly into an actual story-type story, and now I shall have to write it. And I will have to make an effort not to let all the vignettes do that, sprout greater ambitions, or I'll never get the book frelling written.
Leh'agvoi sent me the first page of the Nar'eth "winter manga," and it's looking quite drad. Colour and everything. Of course, since it's taking place on Nebari Prime, most of the colour is white...
But the draddest thing this morning is the arrival of my very own Lovecraft rat, a gift from the talented and very generous Lisa Snellings. My HPL rat is now sitting on my desk, perched atop the Necronomicon, a little Cthulhu at his side. You would all benefit from keeping company with a Lovecraft rat, or a Poe rat, or a Neil rat.
Er...okay. They're telling me my hour is up. Time to play in traffic.
Monday, February 07, 2005
I'm very relieved that the weather's decided to let up for a while. I can pretend, even if it's only briefly, that spring has come to Atlanta, and the season for the Nebari greeting, Ena sn'ial, has passed for another year. Instead, I can whisper Di'hyidni vri ashmiel and hope for some premature end to this lousy, stinking winter.
The Subterranean Press hardback of Low Red Moon will ship tomorrow. I am both pleased and excited. If you'd like to order a copy, assuming any are left at the publisher, click the banner below.
Even with all the good things that critics have said about Murder of Angels and all the people who've said it's my best book to date, Low Red Moon remains my personal favorite. It's the book that pleases me most of all. There are some who would say that's what's most important (but, mostly, those are people who don't have to live off the income from their art). In Low Red Moon, many of my continuing characters have their finest, strongest, bravest moments (so far, at least) — Deacon, Chance, Sadie, even Alice Sprinkle. And I remain in an odd sort of fascinated love with Narcissa Snow, as I would admire any freak or any force of nature, even one so diverted. I'm gushing. I don't often gush about my own work. It's just the excitement at knowing I'll soon see the hardback completed.
Looking back over the comments to yesterday's entry and related comments in my phorum, I think I should clarify what I have in mind, should I choose to take on this "erotica" project. I'm not talking about full-length stories with in-depth characterization. I'm talking about one to two thousand word erotic vignettes. Scenes more than stories. I'd approach the pieces with the same devotion I show all my work. They would not be sloppily rendered things, but they would be short things, things primarily intended for sexual excitement, pretending to serve no higher literary goal. They would be pretty. They would be terrible. They would be bizarre and unexpected. They would be as close to poetic as such a thing can be rendered, but I don't want to mislead anyone who might think that I'm talking about short stories in the sense that I usually write short stories. Vignettes.
I have a reason for this. I've long held that there are certain day-to-day activities that either don't translate well to fiction or which have a tendancy to bring a story to a stop. Sex is one of those. Eating is another. (And yes, there are exceptional works that show this should not be an ironclad dictum, but rather a guideline.) I tend to deal with these things in my own work briefly, indirectly. I don't linger on them, because I know how they can distract or even remove the reader from the flow of a story. Now, of course, if the object of a work is a sexual act or a meal, this maxim may not apply. But it's why you'll not find an actual sex scene in any of my novels (excepting The Five of Cups, wherein I was still figuring these things out). It's not that I'm a prude and disapprove of reading about sex (though some have come to this conclusion), it's just that, as I've said, I find it too distracting and potentially disasterous to a story. But the book of erotica would not be about story. It would be about, in each instance, a scene in which a sexual act would occur. There would be the implication of story, leading both towards and away, to the past and future of the pieces. The reader would be free to imagine all the story she or he wished. But the purpose of these vignettes would be almost strictly pornographic, in the sense that Webster's means when it says, "3: the depiction of acts in a sensational manner so as to arouse a quick intense emotional reaction (the — of violence)." Imagine the paintings of H. R. Giger or Dorian Cleavenger as text instead of illustration, and that's sort of what I want to attempt. There is always the implication, unstated, of narrative.
This will, possibly, change how some of you would have answered the poll. And yes, the book would most likely be illustrated.
I was thinking over all these things late yesterday afternoon, as I was trying to stop thinking about work or anything else. I'd reached that point where there was so much caffeine sizzling through in my system and so little sleep in my immediate past that I felt on the threshold of hallucination. I lay in a tub of steaming hot water, the sun through the blinds warming the room, filling it with golden light, seeming to make the olive walls glow softly. I would shut my eyes, hearing only the faucet drip, and briefly imagine myself in a tenanment building in New York, circa 1938, or a flat in Moscow, circa 1959. I kept trying to turn my brain off, but these thoughts were intent on playing themsleves out.
Spooky and I have begun discussing the photoshoot to get the author's photo for To Charles Fort, With Love. It's going to be the messiest thing of this sort we've done since we did the blood-bath photos for The Five of Cups. Deteails to follow.
Yesterday, Spooky rented Red Dead Revolver for the XBox. Last night, too exhausted from nine hours of work to do much of anything else, I gave it a try. And it's actually a pretty good game. I wasn't expecting it to be. The hokey dialogue and corny voice-acting are annoying as hell, but there's some decent humour and it's a very playable game. I keep wanting spaceships, though. Westerns are always better with spaceships.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Well, as of now (2:48 EST), the poll shows 102 people interested in a volume of erotica written by me and only 8 people not interested. Interesting. I'll probably have news about this later in the week, so I'll keep you posted. My thanks to everyone who took part in the poll and extra thanks to those who took time to comment. However, I am disappointed that none of the eight people who said that they aren't interested bothered to comment as to why they feel that way. I'd genuinely like to know. This is a proposition that I am carefully considering and dissenting opinions might be helpful. Oh, and Robyn, thanks to you, Spooky has now taken to calling me "Sizzly Pants" at every possible opportunity.
I've been up since 6:30 this morning, hammering away at the ms. for To Charles Fort, With Love. Only four hours sleep last night, so I'm beginning to feel a little fried. Another can of Red Bull may be in order. I am recognizing in myself a new degree of perfectionism as regards the proofreading of mss. It started, I think, with the CEM of Murder of Angels last spring, but really hit hard with the ARC of The Dry Salvages. Now, I'm obsessing over TCF,WL just as intensely. Poor Bill Schafer. I promised him this ms. on Thursday or Friday, I think. Here it is Sunday, and i've just discovered that the stories aren't in the order I wish them to be in, so it may be tomorrow before I can send it to him. But mostly I've been writing afterwords. You know, the afterwords for each story that I polled LJ users to see if they wanted, and they said they did, and then I said I wouldn't have time to write them. Yesterday, I decided to write them anyway, but only did "Valentia" and part of "Spindleshanks (New Orleans, 1956)" before a distraction got in the way. So. Today I've put seven hours into the afterwords, with hardly a break since seven o'clock. 2,341 words worth of afterwords (bringing the ms., in case you were wondering, to a total of 86,424 words).
Right now, I can hardly remember yesterday. I worked. Jennifer and I proofread. Me and Spooky watched Tetsuo. I managed to read another chapter of the Blackwood biography. I didn't leave the house. I tried in vain to catch up on backlogged e-mail. That was yesterday.
And now I must get back to work on this collection. I shall make it perfect. I shall...
Saturday, February 05, 2005
The weather is better. The temperatures reached the mid-fifties yesterday afternoon, which is at the lower end of my comfort zone. It's not freezing in my office today. The mammoths and musk oxen stomped away in disgust (I suspect they'll be back).
Not such a bad day off. We had lunch at Sweet Lime on Euclid. Then a stop by Videodrome. Then ice cream at Ben and Jerry's. I'd been craving ice cream that last couple of days, though it's something I usually have no interest in (like chocolate, which generally bores me silly). We'd talked about seeing House of Flying Daggers and went so far as to show up for the 4:15 screening, but it had been moved to a smaller screen, which meant we might as well wait for the DVD. Barbeque for dinner from Dusty's. We'd rented the remake of The Grudge, along with Ghost in the Shell: Innocence. I'm not opposed to American remakes of foreign films, not on principle, but it's something that should be done only if the filmmaker intends to add, to expand, to somehow alter and, hopefully, enrich the experience offered by the original. The remake of The Grudge is a dumbed-down, spoon-fed mess, sometimes shot-for-shot the original, a little gorier, less story, easier to understand, a more defined central character, etc. Dull. Ghost in the Shell: Innocence was a little better, but much of the conventional cell animation (which was unevenly mixed with CGI), was stiff and uninvolving. The film had its moments, here and there, and the ending was rather nice. But I'd expected more, and after Casshern last weekend, I feel as though certain standards have been raised again. This film would have impressed me a lot more in, say, 1999, than in 2005. So, good day, not so great movies (it was the first time I'd left the house since the ice-storm on Saturday, January 29th).. I finally went to bed and read another chapter of the Blackwood biography.
Today, I have to go over various little line edits in the To Charles Fort, With Love ms. with Jennifer. Is this comma right? Is this one wrong? "Anymore" or "any more" in this instance? Should I drop that hyphen? And so forth. Hopefully, it won't take us longer than an hour. I generally trust my own judgment in these matters, but it's nice to get a second opinion on those few doubtful points. Then I need to e-mail the entire ms. for TCF,WL to Subterranean Press. I also have to sign a hundred copies of Silk for Bill Schafer. And I need to read through "Bradbury Weather" again and see whether or not the ending really does need work. I suspect it does. That's my today. I'm actually kind of glad to be back at work.
I suppose that's it for this entry. So, onward.
Friday, February 04, 2005
So, the courier guy finally shows up yesterday. And it turns out that someone at Penguin, someone who apprently is under the impression I own a frelling warehouse, had marked the shipment for outside delivery. Fourteen boxes of Silk all plastic wrapped onto a huge wooden pallet. I thought at first they were just going to leave the thing sitting in our driveway. Fortunately, the driver helped Spooky carry the boxes up onto the porch. They are now stacked about the house and will be until I can get them to our storage unit. By the way, I can say now that Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press was the patron who made all this possible. Through his generosity, I'll be able to keep earning a little off this book until we can get it back into print somewhere. There is some chance that Roc will publish it as a mass-market paperback, as they're planning to do eventually with Threshold, Low Red Moon, and Murder of Angels. Thanks, Bill.
And speaking of Mr. Schafer, he called yesterday to say that people wanting to purchase a copy of the hardback edition of Low Red Moon from him should order now. It looks like the lettered edition is sold out now and the numbered is almost sold out. The book is scheduled to ship on February 8th (that's this coming Tuesday). Click on the banner below to order:
As for yesterday, the whole thing was spent revising and re-revising the ms. for To Charles Fort, With Love. It's now almost ready to go to the publisher tomorrow. This is a book that I very much hope that I'll be happy with.
Anyway, that's it for now. A day off, remember? If I should owe you an e-mail—and I know that I owe many of you e-mails—don't expect anything today. I'm out of here...
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.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
It's so entirely February out there, you'd think the month would realize how cliched this is, would begin to feel like a self-parody, and proceed to lighten up a little. Rain. Cold. Dreary. Cloudy. Icky. The mammoths have built a small fire beneath my desk and invited a family of musk oxen in. I hope that's only temporary. Mammoths are one thing...
Much to my surprise, I did 1,488 words on what I sincerely hope will be the preface for To Charles Fort, With Love. I'm giving it one more day. It's a strange sort of preface, which may (or may not) befit this collection. I can only hope it isn't dull.
On Thursday, we're expecting the delivery of fourteen boxes, containing 500 copies of Silk. I have no idea where we're going to put them all.
Back in 1988, Stephen Jones and Kim Newman did a really delightful little book together, Horror 100 Best Books. The title's fairly self-explanatory. Author's of dark fiction were asked to write short pieces on one hundred of the field's best and most influential titles. Contributor's included Clive Barker, Harlan Ellison, Robert Bloch, Ramsey Campbell, Terry Pratchett, Peter Straub, Neil Gaiman, and David Schow. Now Steve and Kim are doing a follow-up, a second best one hundred, and this time I've been asked to contribute. Which is drad. I'll be writing a piece about Kathe Koja's 1993 novel, Skin, which had a very great influence on my own work. Sadly, as is the case with all Kathe's early novels, Skin is now out of print.
Yesterday, I received the following in an e-mail, regarding the practice of writing authors to inform them of published typos:
I have never done this. I always figured authors were way too busy to get involved in such things. However, I did once go to a con (BayCon 04) when a PANEL actually *advocated* this practice. I kept waiting for the punchline: like, "okay, write this big long letter to get it all off your chest (the fact they're incensed at a typo in a work that took at least over a year to produce that they paid 8 bucks for), but don't actually expect the author to read it or anything." But no, they seemed to fully expect the authors to read these idiotic rants and be somehow affected by them--as they kept insisting the panel attendees do it. Anyway, just to tell you, as noble as your intent is, there are actual sources of misinformation out there; this is not just passive stupidity that causes this behavior. So you miiight have to be jeeest a little bit more creative than being rude.
Personally, I think anyone who goes to any panel at any con and uncritically accepts such ridiculous advice from panelists is certainly exhibiting "passive stupidity." Who were these panelists? Why should you take their word on this? What makes them authorities? Were they themselves professional authors? Were they publishers? Editors? Regardless, it's absurd. There are always sources of misinformation. But I expect people to be able to recognize foolishness for what it is and to think for themselves. I've heard many, many foolish things from panelists at cons. For example, I was on a panel at last year's Dragon*Con where a published author insisted that the one thing that distinguishes fantasy from all other fiction is that it absolutely must provide the reader with a clear resolution. This is, of course, not true. It's baloney of the worst sort, and I'd hope that people attending the panel wouldn't accept it as so just because this writer happened to say it. However, I expect some of them did. But maybe that's not "passive" stupidity. Maybe that's active stupidity.
Okay. I guess it's time to make the doughnuts. Please, please, please check out the copy of From Weird and Distant Shores we have on eBay, the very last item in our auction to fix Spooky's broken molar (she's at the dentist as I type this). Thanks.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
And it just this second occurred to me, a few more decades, a few more decades at the most, and that phrase will fall out of use — "You're beginning to sound like a broken record." Because no one much will understand what it means. What's a record? What sort of record? How do you break a record? Is this about the Guinness Book? Is there actually a sound that attends the breaking of a record?
What I'm trying to say is that nothing has been written on the preface for To Charles Fort, With Love. I sat here yesterday. I started a second draft. I wrote one paragraph. It stalled out on me. At this point, given my schedule which could hardly be more tightly packed, I either write the damned thing today, or I give it up. I write it today, or the book most likely will not include a preface. I suppose it could be added later, post ARC, but I would like the reviewers to see the entire book, not the book minus preface, afterwords, etc. I'm still not at all sure where the problem lies. We don't use that familiar phrase around here, the one that is generally employed by less superstitious types to describe this inability to write. After my success with chapters One and Two of Daughter of Hounds, it's a little baffling, though. I have come to suspect that it's simply the result of having just read so much of my own material in a very short period of time. I'm being too self-conscious. I'm overwhelmed by me. And I don't want to read any more of me or write any more of me, and I most assuredly don't want to write anything more about me. I have the prologue here in my head. It just doesn't want to be translated into written form. Truthfully, I need a long vacation from me. From Caitlín. She's wearing my nerves and patience to a frazzle.
I hate giving up on something. I loathe failing at anything.
Blah, blah, frelling blah.
Yesterday, Poppy wrote:
Anyway, I saw this friend-of-a-friend's journal entry calling me Goofus for telling readers who write me pointing out typos to blow me, and while I had to laugh -- better "Goofus" than "waaaa, boo-hoo, she's so meeeeeean" -- it made me think perhaps my point had been unclear. As I commented in the FOAF's journal, I make sure my manuscripts are very, very clean when I turn them in. I also proofread each of my books at least three more times before it goes to print. Typo-ridden books, whether fiction or nonfiction, are extremely annoying, and typos are almost entirely the author's responsibility.
My point, though -- and I admit I put it rudely; I am certainly a Goofus sometimes -- was that there is nothing I can do about a typo once the book has gone to print. The publisher is not going to re-typeset the next printing because I found a misplaced comma or a "reigned" where I should have said "reined" (a particular bugaboo of mine, though I think I've finally overcome it). A reader who writes me just to point out a typo is wasting my time and his stamp simply to say, "Ha-ha, you screwed up."
Is this not perfectly obvious? Personally, I've been lucky enough to have received only a very small number of those "you frelled up X on page Y" letters from readers. It's hard for me to understand why anyone would be rude enough to ever write such a letter or to think that they might actually believe there's any purpose served by doing so. As authors, I believe that we have no obligation to be anything but rude when faced with readers who do things like this. Through our rudeness may they gain a better understanding of how publishing works. May they also learn a little tact. I would add that while, in reality, it ultimately falls to the author to catch all the mistakes that may exist in a given manuscript, it's actually the responsibility of copyeditors and editors. I've had a great deal of my time, and the time of those who help me, wasted by copyeditors who wanted to rewrite my prose and couldn't be bothered to catch actual errors. As for the readers, people who have no role in the process of producing a book but sometimes act as though they think they do, I occassionally get a very real sense that there are a considerable number of people, especially online, who hunt mistakes the way a big-game hunter might stalk lions and antelope. When they find one (and it's never difficult), it's a trophy. And, to me, it's both amusing and baffling when these typo hunters get offended that they've offended me (or Poppy or anyone else). To reiterate what Poppy says above, when you write me about a mistake in a published book, the only thing that you're accomplishing is making me feel bad about something I have worked very, very hard to try and insure is as close to perfect as possible.
What else is there to say about yesterday? I baked a spinich and mushroom quiche. Spooky and I watched The Fifth Element again. The "ultimate edition" DVD is really very close to just that. A lot of wonderful extras. I'd forgotten how much this movie meant to me. Anyway, that's about all there was to yesterday.
I've decided to get back to work, at least in a limited capacity, on a couple of the paleontology projects I shelved in 2002. Do I have the time? I'll make the time by cutting out video games. There's nowhere else I can steal it from. I hope to have a paper ready for a conference in Maastricht in 2007. I've been missing paleontology terribly the last few months. And I'm sick of missing things I love.
Check out Lisa Snellings' adorable H. P. Lovecraft rat. I saw the Neil rat in Minneapolis back in November. It's adorable, too.
We still have two items remaining on eBay, a copy of Murder of Angels and a copy of From Weird and Distant Shores. This is the tail end of the auction to pay for Spooky's broken tooth. Please have a look. Bid. Buy it now. Whichever.
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