Yesterday was absolutely the last day I could afford to spend on editing the 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder. That said, today will probably be the actual last day I spend editing it. We made it all the way through the typescript yesterday, dealing with the hundreds of edits that Spooky was uncertain how to handle. Today, she's going to check over Peter Straub's afterword and Doug Winter's introduction for formatting problems. I'm going to write a new author's preface, and go over the indicia page, the publication history, general formatting throughout the ms., make sure all the ellipses are right, run the highly unreliable MS Word spellcheck over the whole thing, and probably attend to a number of details I can't think of right off. Then all that will remain to be done is expanding "Salammbô Redux" by about four or five thousand words, and it will do done. I have resolved this will be the last edition ever of this collection. There might be future printings, but this will be the final new edition.

I don't think there's much else worth saying about yesterday. I did not get back to work on the screenplay. The editing left me too tired for more than a short walk, and still I was awake until after three a.m. I know people who draw a distinction between physical and mental exhaustion, but for me they seem to be one and the same. My mind wears this blasted meatsuit to a frazzle. I saw something just now, a new study concluding that insomnia increases the risk of heart attack. I will not point out that a conflicting study a few months back found that insomniacs live longer. The way I feel right now, a heart attack doesn't sound so bad.

And I see I have not had a day off since September 9th, which was...fifteen days ago.

Ah, but I did get a nice email from John Glover, which contained this interesting bit about "Little Conversations":

"Little Conversations" was a completely different kind of pleasure. As you've said, it's "blatantly autobiographical," which is refreshing. Often fantasy authors put their own life through so many filters before it winds up on the page, it might as well not be there. It's nice to read something less filtered. It leaves me a little uncomfortable commenting on the story, as if I were commenting on your life, but if all good fiction's ultimately autobiographical, I guess that's the name of the game.

If you have not yet read "The Ape's Wife," you may find it here.

And now, the platypus will have herhisits way with me. To paraphrase Ms Woolf, "a woman must have stimulants and a platypus of her own if she is to write fiction."

I wake up this morning to discover that Howard Hughes has been named a full partner, while CRK struggles on in anonymity. Where the fuck would those four be without me, I ask? But if I start complaining now, they'll send Herr Platypus around with hisherits venomous spurs. And sure, that can be fun every now and then, but I think I'm getting track marks from the toxin. So, I bite my tongue, do as I'm told, and try not the notice these little insults and trifling slights.

There comes a moment when one realizes she has too much on her plate, and that it's making her sick, and something has to change. I've had it happen twice before. But not in a long while. I always take on more than I can manage. That's just the way of things. But. Yesterday afternoon I finally reached the point where it was clear that something had to go. Maybe two somethings, but at least one. I am not well. And I am not well because there's is too much work and too much stress, and I have neglected my health. The only way I can hope to get well again is let up on myself a bit. So, to wit, yesterday I called Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press, and told him one of the very last things I wanted to be telling him. That I have to shelve The Dinosaurs of Mars indefinitely. It just isn't coming out the way I want, and there's not time to begin again, as August is already crammed with deadlines. He was extremely understanding, but asked to keep the book under contract (as they were just signed last week), since I do plan to get it written eventually. I agreed, and was very grateful for his patience. So, yes, shelved indefinitely. And I apologise to all those who have been eagerly awaiting this particular book. You're gonna have to wait at least another year, and maybe longer than that.

So, yeah, there you go.

I was still wide awake at 4:30 a.m. this morning, when I finally broke down and took an Ambien for the first time in days. Then some idiot with a leaf-blower woke me at 9:30 a.m. I swear to fucking...well, to whoever or whatever it is that formerly human atheist witches swear to...that this leaf-blower thing is going to drive me to become civic minded. The damn things are being banned all over the country. They destroy the soil, kill small creatures, pollute the air, consume copious quantities of fossil fuel, and damage hearing, and they're unregulated, and Atlanta is another city that can do without them. Buy a goddamn rake, people. Or let fallen leaves lie. Not that leaves are falling in July in Atlanta. These fuckers just blow dirt around, mostly. It baffles me. Truly.

I am pleased to report, though, that we're only about one third of the way through Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Spooky just asked me to mention the eBay auctions, which I am now doing. Have a look. Bid. Help keep the platypus at bay. And so forth.

I have come to a place where exhaustion seems to stretch on forever, in all directions. I lie down, but cannot sleep. I lie still, but cannot rest my mind. My mind is working always, always gnawing, always remembering, even when drugged. Even in those rare hours of sleep. And so I am run ragged. And truly, it's not been this bad in years.

The LJ entries might be light for the next few days, as I try to reconstitute. Then again, they might not. I have to consider all that's left on my plate, and how to proceed from here. Oh, and Hi, Captain Susenko and Miss Maertens. Professor Nishi instructed me to bid you both a good day and thanks for the evening's company. And I do ever as the good Professor asks, as her name is on the masthead. Me, I just take up space in this skull.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spooky just finished sending out the June issue of Sirenia Digest. And there was a stupid frell up with Yahoo, so that the first half of our mailing list will be receiving the digest twice. That is, two copies. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience. I don't think there's been an issue of Sirenia yet that has been this much trouble to actually get out to readers. I was at work on it last night until 9:32 p.m., then another hour or so after midnight, and then Gordon and I spent much of the late morning and early afternoon getting all the kinks out (oh, hah, hah...). My thanks to Gail of Desert Island Design for getting me the copy of Rick's illustration for "Giants in the Earth" when I'd exhausted all other possible sources. At any rate, I very much hope you guys like this one. Comments here are more than welcome. More than ever, I need...what's it called? Encouragement, I think. And sometime I'll explain how this issue can simultaneously be #6, #7, and #8. Particles and waves. Etc.

Please note that there's now less than three hours remaining in the "Waycross" chapbook auction. This is pretty much the same situation I had with that last copy of Candles for Elizabeth yesterday. I hope to see it go for a little more, as this might be the last time I'm able to offer this book. If you want to buy from me, bid now. Thanks. And here are the links for the other auctions.