I do not want this journal to become a whining catalog of my physical infirmities. But when those infirmities have a direct bearing on my ability to think, to work, to sleep, to fucking write, the one concern overlaps the other. Things that I have always considered too personal to place in a public journal become central to my public endeavors. It has grown very confusing. What to say, what not to say. The worst seizure last night since October, probably, and it must have been about 3:30 or 4 ayem when it happened. Just hit like a jet plane landing inside my head, no warning, and then I was afraid to try to go to sleep. I was up until a little after six. The sound of the mockingbirds finally drove me to bed, and I slept through nightmares until about one, to wake feeling not the least bit rested. To wake feeling even more exhausted than when I fell asleep.

Seizure: "act of seizing," 1482, from seize (q.v.). Meaning "sudden attack of illness" is attested from 1779. Or, Epilepsy: 1578, from M.Fr. epilepsie, from L.L. epilepsia, from Gk. epilepsia "seizure," from epi- "upon" + lepsis "seizure," from leps-, future stem of lambanein "take hold of, grasp" (see analemma). Replaced the native name, falling sickness. Of course, my seizures are not exactly epilepsy, they're just pretty much indistinguishable from epileptic seizures.

More reading yesterday, more of the New England vampire book.

I do think, after looking over yesterday's comments, that I have resolved to make the protagonist of The Red Tree the same age as me, which will be -04 for most of the time I'll be writing the book. How far in the Pit has American publishing sunk when it's afraid of middle-aged and older characters? Afraid or simply disinterested. Whatever. I'll make the weird girl who lives in the attic of the house , the painter — who was going to me a man — a twenty-something. Maybe that'll make people happy. But I discovered, when I wrote "Salammbô Redux (2007)" last summer, that it was something I needed to do, writing older characters. So, there. Thank you for the comments yesterday. You tipped the scales.

Here's a cool little thing. Jeff VanderMeer writes about ghouls (and I get a mention, alongside HPL and Brian McNaughton), and there's a link to an article of the origin of HPL's ghouls (which are, more or less, my "Hounds of Cain"). Thank you, sovay, for bringing this to my attention.

Last night, a sort of half-hearted "Kid Night," we watched the last three episodes of the final season of Angel. Seasons Four and Five were really quite good. The series was just hitting its stride. Wesley's death and that final scene — marvelous, but it was a hard ending to take. And then we watched Battlestar Galactica, which was good, and gods, but I do adore Katie Sackoff. However, I think commercials really do this series grave harm. The suspense builds and is then deflated. I'll likely watch the whole series over on DVD when it's done. Later, some very frustrating Second Life, nothing to write home about.

I did not leave the house yesterday.

I'm going to go now and try to get some reading done.

No break in the insomnia, and it was at least 5:30 ayem before I found sleep last night, this morning, despite extra Ambien. And my efforts to gain weight are being met with little sucess. I'm still hovering around 170, a good fifteen pounds underweight for me. My rings fall off, so I've stopped trying to wear them.

After yesterday's entry, I realized that I'd completely failed to provide any idea of the actual storyline for The Red Tree. It simply did not occur to me to do so (and the Old Timers know how I hate synopses). I'd say it's a vampire novel, but that would be utterly misleading, as it's hardly in the "traditional" vampire mode, whether, to you, that means 'Salem's Lot, Dracula, Anne Rice, Lost Souls, Laurell K. Hamilton, Sonya Blue, or even The Five of Cups. It won't be like any of those sorts of vampire novels. There may or may not be any actual vampires, for one thing. If you've caught some of my treatments of vampirism in Sirenia Digest or Frog Toes and Tentacles, well, it'll be a little like that, at least in tone. I'm thinking of pieces like "Ode to Edvard Munch," "Untitled 12," "Orpheus at Mount Pangaeum," and maybe even "The Bed of Appetite." The protagonist, Sarah Crowe, is drawn to a fallow plot of farmland in Massachusetts (or Rhode Island) on which grows a tree, an ancient oak, with a very unsavory history. It's about history, and insanity, lost love, and hauntings, werewolvery, peculiar paintings, witch trials, and maybe even the Hounds of Cain. And yet, in some thematic sense, it will mostly be a "vampire novel." I want to make the protagonist 45 or 50, but marketing would probably have a coronary, so I'll probably settle for 37. She will likely be a lesbian. And more than that I can promise with no degree of certainty. Well, except it will be much darker and less whimsical than Daughter of Hounds.

If you've not yet seen the new interview at Fearzone, it's here.

Also, Daughter of Hounds is eligible in the "Best Fantasy Novel" category in the 2008 Locus Poll and Survey, and your votes would not be unappreciated, should you feel it is so deserving. Also, Tales from the Woeful Platypus is eligible in the "Best Single-Author Collection" category, but you'd have to write it in, as it's not in the drop-down menu thingy like Daughter of Hounds. And, of course, various of my short stories and "novelettes" are eligible. I'd especially like to point you to "The Ape's Wife." You do not have to be a Locus subscriber to vote, but if you are, it'll net you a free issue, I think.

Yesterday, I read the first two chapters of Michael E. Bell's Food for the Dead: On the Trail of New England's Vampires (2001), which begins with the whole Mercy Brown affair in Exeter. Then we got a call informing us we were on the guest list for Colin Meloy's solo show at the Variety Playhouse, and knowing this might be our last chance to see a show at the Variety before the move, we stopped everything and got dressed. A quick dinner at the Vortex (fish and chips and pink lemonade for me). There are a couple of photos from the show behind the cut. The one of Mr. Meloy is awful, because it's very low light and I absolutely cannot hold a camera still. A wonderful, sweet show, despite the performer being stricken with an awful cold. We were introduced to Cornwallis the Crystal and Consquela the Mermaid.

( 10 April 2008 )

After the show, well, stuff, and then Spooky read me the first chapter of House of Leaves again, because I needed to hear it, and then I did not fall asleep until five ayem.

And I shall remind you, 'cause Herr Platypus says I should, that if you subscribe to Sirenia Digest by Sunday at midnight (EST), you will receive issue #28 FREE. And now I drink the coffee.

First, apologies for having screwed up the link to Sirenia Digest in two successive entries. I have fixed those links, and the one I just gave is also correct, and yes, if you subscribe this week, before Sunday at midnight (EST), you will be receive #28 ("Pickman's Other Model," "Pickman's Model" by HPL, and "Madonna Littoralis") absolutely FREE. It says a lot about my questionable mental state the last few days that I screwed up that link twice and did not catch it. My thanks to those who did and who then let me know. Also, my thanks to those new subscribers who have taken me up on this offer, and somehow managed to reach the subscription pages despite my blunders.

The chief reason that I have been so especially scatterbrained the last week or two, aside from trying to find a place to live in Providence, dealing with seizures, and the incessant insomnia, is that a short while back I called my agent (Tuesday, March 25th) and told her that there was simply no way I could have Joey Lafaye written by September 1st, and that I would not ruin it trying. I suggested, instead, that I first write the second book on this contract, which is, for now, called The Red Tree. It's a book much more like Daughter of Hounds (without the guns and poker-playing demon), much more familiar territory. So, I had to write up that proposal, submit it, and wait. This morning, I got the go ahead on The Red Tree, which I shall begin immediately, as I have only four and three-quarters months to write it. While keeping the Digest up and running and moving from Atlanta to Providence. But, yes. The next novel will not be Joey Lafaye, but The Red Tree. Consider yourselves warned.

And, once again, I want to direct readers who are interested in the mass-market paperback of Murder of Angels to Barnes & Noble, as they are actually being bothered to sell the book. And, please, do be interested. I'd like to see this book, and all the others, still in print this time next year. Also, here are the correct links to purchase the other novels and, also, Tales of Pain and Wonder. Thank you. Please feel free to repost these links in your journals:

Daughter of Hounds

Silk

Threshold

Low Red Moon

Tales of Pain and Wonder

---

Very little to say about the last couple of days. I mean, yeah, the insomnia. Spooky forced me out into the bright springtime on Tuesday, and we walked as far as Freedom Park before spreading the red plaid picnic blanket blu_muse gave us some time ago. I lay down, staring first at the sky and then the dandelions, and then I proceeded to fall asleep. Later there was Thai food, which would have been better had I not been to sleepy to taste it. Yesterday, we walked down Sinclair, and the foliage is a comfort, the foliage and the woodpeckers and the mockingbirds. I did manage to read, over the last two days, another JVP paper, "A new aigialosaur (Squamata; Anguimorpha) with soft tissue remains from the Upper Cretaceous of Nuevo León, Mexico." I've tried to drown the insomnia with Ambien and Kava and Diazapam and Second Life, none of which have been especially effective. But, as for Second Life, I stepped back a bit from Toxian City to explore a dark sf rp called Necronom (at Hypnos), which has to be one of the most gorgeous builds I've ever seen anywhere in SL (but then, I don't get out much).

Oh, that reminds me, I have not forgotten you, Sirenia Players. I've just been too stupid from sleep deprivation and stress and meds to do anything constructive. I'll try to make amends in that regard sometime in the next week, and at least send everyone a notecard (an inworld nc, so you'll have to log into SL to get it). I just want you to know I haven't given up on the project, and to say thanks for your patience.

Platypus says time to get to work. But, remember, subscribe to Sirenia Digest before Sunday at midnight (EST), and you will be receive #28 FREE.

I think the insomnia has reached a point where it's easier to count how many hours I didn't sleep than those I did.

It's spring outside today. It's spring, and it looks and feels like spring. High 60s today, low 70s tomorrow. The trees are going green.

And I keep forgetting to mention that the mass-market paperback of Murder of Angels is out. Indeed, I think it's been out for a week or two. With great luck, you can find it in bookshops. You can't yet get it from Amazon.com, for reasons no one is bothering to explain, but you can get it from Barnes & Noble (just follow the link above). If you can, if you are interested, please pick up a copy. Spooky put a lot of time into the corrections on this edition. And it has a nice cover (and a dubious cover blurb):



By the way, anyone who subscribes to Sirenia Digest between now and midnight (EST) on Sunday will get #28 FREE when they receive April's issue (#29).

Yesterday, we made the 3:15 screening of Carter Smith's The Ruins (based on the novel by Scott Smith). And despite having four or five interchangeable and utterly vapid protagonists, once I got past the sluggish first half hour or so (and my annoyance at the bland glamor of the aforementioned "characters"), the film suddenly comes alive and delivers a deeply chilling bit of weird fiction. Two words: screaming flowers. That ought to be enough, right there. For a short bit, I feared that The Ruins would merely be a crawl through a perilous underworld, such as that already delivered quite well by Neil Marshall's The Descent (2005). Instead, The Ruins turns out to deal with a sort of horror that occurs almost entirely above ground and usually in broad daylight, which, of course, makes its horror all the more horrible. There's something here that harks back to films of the seventies, in the bleakness of delivery, in the wonderful abruptness of the conclusion. I am reminded, in the main, of Stephen King's short story, "The Raft," and in a lot of ways, The Ruins is that story moved from a lake in Maine to the jungles of Mexico. The gore is handled skillfully and never overpowers subtler effects. Graeme Revell delivers a score that helps to move it all along. I can't say this is a genuinely good movie, if only because the beginning fails so completely, but it is a very rare film that juggles darkness well enough to artfully unnerve me. When it was over, I'd had enough, which, I think, is the way a film like this ought to make you feel. I'd even been made to feel sympathy for the idiot American college students, because the Bad Thing waiting for them in the ruins of the title is bad enough, wrong enough, that the threat to life and sanity it poses struck me as something not even those disposable fools deserved. Had the director seen fit to insert actual characters for his carnivorous Cannabis to munch on, I think this might have been a genuinely good film. Regardless, definitely worth a matinée, though you shouldn't pay full price.

Back home, we watched Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street again, and it's still gorgeous and brilliant and sexy. The rest of the evening is a blur of insomnia and Second Life.

My coffee is cold, which is probably for the best.

I was up a wee bit too late last night (but thank you Lorne and Larissa), and then there were the nightmares, so I'm presently somewhat dazed and disoriented. I'm awake, I'm just mostly elsewhere.

Yesterday, I did 1,070 words on "Pickman's Other Model." The writing started out slowly, but then built up some momentum. A much better day of it than I had on Wednesday. If it'll just all hold together, in terms of the story's historical authenticity, I think I'm going to like this one.

I want to say again how happy I am with the Subterranean Press edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder. My thanks to everyone who has ordered a copy thus far.

After about half a dozen people expressed an interest in participating in the Second Life "Sirenia Players," I went ahead and established the group yesterday evening. At this point, four people have been invited in, three have accepted. More invitations will go out this evening. We'll probably have an informal get-together in a few weeks, to talk through the basics, lay some ground rules, and so forth. If you're interested, I need your SL username, otherwise I can't find you to send you an invitation, and the group is invite-only.

A good walk yesterday, down Sinclair Avenue to talk to Daisy Dog and the dinosaur. The Narcissus and camellias are blooming. I'm going to miss these Southern springs, but I figure it'll be more than fair, the trade off. Speaking strictly in terms of climate, it's a bloody shame the great industrial (and cultural) centers of this country were not founded in the southeast, instead of the northeast. Oh, fickle fucking happenstance. Anyway, after dinner, another two episodes of Angel. I enjoyed "Slouching Towards Bethlehem," but "Supersymmetry" was just a little too something.

And really, I think that's all for now. Time to dance with the platypus in the pale moonlight (of..um..day).

Well, occasional bouts of dreamsickness and insomnia aside, I seem to have a better handle on this sleeping trick lately. My nightly average is drifting back towards eight hrs., and for a long time there it was, at best, only six or seven. Now if I can just force myself to start exercising again, endeavor to stay hydrated, keep the stress in my life under control, see the dentist, remember to eat a minimum of 2,000 calories a day, and take my bloody vitamins, I might be able to pull myself together again.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,238 words and found the end of Chapter Two of Joey Lafaye. That brings the total word count for the chapter to 7,728 (as compared to 7,357 for Chapter One). I am aiming for somewhat shorter chapters in this novel. In Daughter of Hounds, I believe the average chapter length was something like 10,000 words, and I think maybe, in the case of this particular book, shorter is better. Today, we will read back over all of Chapter Two, before I begin Chapter Three. Already, I can see that there will be fans of Silk and Threshold who are likely to be disappointed in this book, not only because it's more "fantasy" and less "horror," but because it'll likely be deemed "talky" (this peculiar criticism was leveled at Daughter of Hounds), as I'm placing more emphasis on dialogue and less on the setting of mood. It's a conscious decision. These days, I'm just far more interested in what my characters have to say to one another than I am in evoking mood. Maybe I'm compensating for the fact that I so rarely speak to people face-to-face anymore.

It's cooler today, pretending to be winter again.

Last night, after dinner, I made some corrections to the Dune: Apocalypse transcript I mentioned in yesterday's entry. Then we watched last week's Project Runway. Chris said something wonderful — "It's so cute to watch youth." I think I want that in needlepoint on a sampler or something. Then we watched a couple more episodes of Angel ("The Ring" and "Eternity"; I especially liked the latter, partly because there was very little Cordelia). That was yesterday, pretty much.

Thanks to the people who have bid in this round of eBay auctions. All but one of the auctions ends tomorrow, so please have a look.

Here's something I've been hesitant to bring up, but I think I risk being rude by not bringing it up. I think two people may have purchased DVDs for me from my Amazon.com wishlist (as they are no longer on my wishlist), but neither has actually shown up yet. It's possible this is just a frell up on Amazon's part, but I don't want to not say "thank you" to someone who has a "thank you" coming. So, if, perchance, you're the person who bought me Sunshine or The Call of Cthulhu, you might want to say something to Amazon, as I have seen neither hide nor hair of either. And don't get me started about hairy DVDs.

Later today, I want to post a poll, what was your favourite letter from "The Crimson Alphabet," something like that. I'm just sort of curious. Also, I do hope people are enjoying #26. Thanks for the comments I've received on it so far; more are certainly welcome.

And here it is, January 31st already, and tomorrow is Imbolc.

I decided last night, as I went to bed at the remarkably early hour of 2 a.m., that one of the universe's greatest horrors is being awake and watching the antics of Smeagol at dawn. Which is what happened yesterday. Last night, though, I was asleep by three and slept until 11 a.m., eight hours, so I am considerably recovered, thank you very much.

By now, you should have Sirenia Digest #26. I very much hope that you enjoy it. Comments encouraged. I would have sent it out late last night, instead of Spooky doing it this morning, but I was insanely sleep-deprived and forgot to check my inbox for the corrected PDF until very late.

Quite a fine day off yesterday, and I am taking another today, having realised that I went 13 days without a day off. No wonder I was feeling frazzled. Today, we might even make it to Fernbank!

Yesterday, after breakfast, I had still another hot bath, then just savored the sunlight and warm air in my office for a bit. We're losing both today, I think, as warm and cold fronts collide and bring rain and, then, tomorrow, chillier weather. Another good reason to have another day off. Cold, dreary weather is good for little but writing. Anyway, yesterday, we made a 3 p.m. (CaST) screening of Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood (based on Upton Sinclair's novel, Oil). It was, quite simply, the best film of 2007 that I have yet seen, and undoubtedly one of the best films of the last ten years. Both Daniel Day-Lewis and Paul Dano deliver Oscar-caliber performances. Script, cinematography, score, art direction...all of it impeccable. It's the sort of film that makes me wish I were better at reviewing films. There Will Be Blood is a remarkable achievement, even more amazing than the Coen Bros. adaptation of No Country for Old Men, but I can do little more than stand amazed and heap hyperbole upon it. I strongly, strongly recommend this film, and on a wide, flat theatre screen, if possible.

We had a walk to Freedom Park (part of the snowman still hasn't melted), the first halfway decent excuse for a walk I've taken in weeks. Later, after dinner, we watched more Angel (two episodes from Season One), and then I had some good rp in Second Life. It was a bit like the set up for a nerd joke: what happens when four Fremen, two Harkonnen, and three Bene Gesserit walk into a bar (and never mind the Sardaukar lurking in the alleyway). I was in bed by two, though I talked until three (annoying Spooky, and annoying Hubero to the point that he stalked off in search of a quiter, if colder, place to sleep).

And the nightmares have already faded, so no dreamsickness! Huzzah! So, yes, yesterday was fine, and with luck today will be, as well.

Please have a look at the latest round of eBay. Hope you see something there you cannot live without.

Insomnia, my dearest fucking friend. Without you, where would I be? How many dreams have you saved me from so far? I think I got maybe five hours sleep this morning. Maybe. Awake for good since 7:45 a.m. or so (CaST), after not getting to sleep until sometime around three.

A shame that LJ Rabbit Hole Day does not appear to have caught on.

Day before yesterday, which would have been Saturday, I wrote 1,132 words on Chapter Two of Joey Lafaye, and I might have reached the chapter's end. Maybe not. I have not yet decided.

Yesterday, after a long, hot bath (increasingly rare as I try to be a good Atlantian and conserve our quickly diminishing water supply), I read over Part Two of the "The Crimson Alphabet" and then "The Collector of Bones." Then I made a great number of line edits to each and wrote a very short prolegomena for Sirenia Digest #26. By six p.m. or so, I had the issue laid out and send it to Gordon (thingunderthest) to be PDFed. So, yeah, the new issue will go out later today, and there's still time to subscribe. In fact, anyone who subscribes between now and midnight tonight will get #25 free, just because I'm in sort of a good mood (sleep or no sleep).

Today will mostly be a day off, as I have not had one in a week or so. We may wind up at the Fernbank Museum of Natural History, or a matinée, or I may just go back to bed. I'll have to see what sort of mood Spooky's in (she's still asleep, the lucky nixar). The weather sems like it will be warmer and sunny today. It's already 37F, and they're promising 60F. Howard Hughes needs some sunlight and fresh air.

And here are a couple of screencaps from Shahrazad's Water of Life Ceremony/Taud last Wednesday night. I didn't really take many, as I always lose myself in rp and forget to get screencaps. Also, I never seem to take good screencaps (blu_muse, how do you do it?). We had a nice crowd, about twenty people, and I know lots of images were taken, so more should surface. Have I mentioned that Second Life is the Best. Toy. Ever? Yeah, I thought I had. Anyway, yes, behind the cut (probably not 100% work-safe):

( Fear is the little death )

Anyway, yeah. Watch for Sirenia Digest #26. It'll show grace your in-boxes sometime today. Also, please have a look at the new round of eBay auctions. Thanks!

I swear to fuck (it's not like I can convincingly swear to god), if it just were not for sleep, this whole being alive thing would be at least hundred times more palatable. But, I'll get back to that in a minute or fifteen.

Yesterday, I did 1,003 words on Chapter Two of Joey Lafaye. Which was just enough that I didn't have to feel guilty. I'd have made 1,200, but the snow was a constant source of distraction. I think it went well, the writing. Having already introduced Ignatius and Joey on Thursday, yesterday I introduced Sweet William, who is Ignatius' brother. It's a scene set just north of Philomath on the road to Athens, and I could not help but take a jab at the South. I swore I would refrain in this book from taking the South to task for all its endless wretchedness, because I'm tired of doing that, and it's not like most of the rest of this country doesn't have it's own fair share of rednecks and scuttlefish. But, I went and did it anyway. I think it's a case of resentment. This novel was supposed to be set in Westerly and Watch Hill, Rhode Island, not Georgia. But, here I am, still stuck in Georgia, and it was such a magnificent bitch setting Daughter of Hounds in Rhode Island when I was sitting here in Georgia, I just couldn't put myself through that again. And there really is some scary-ass shit in the boonies southeast of Athens.

As for the snow yesterday, it must have started about noon and kept up almost all the way to dark (just before 7 p.m. CaST). It stayed warm enough that the road only got slushy, and we never lost power. It had actually started melting before the day was over, but at the height of the storm, we must have had at least two inches. Today, there are still patches, but they'll melt away very soon. Anyway, while I was writing, Spooky took some photos (behind the cut):

( Snow Day #2 )

A phone call from Bill Schafer at subpress this morning, and I hope I was coherent. I'd not been out of bed very long, and I was having trouble remembering how my mouth worked. But, among other things, we talked about Tales of Pain and Wonder, and the generation ship on a water planet story that might replace The Dinosaurs of Mars, and the next erotica collection. I made some grim joke about the uncertainty of life after Joey Lafaye. And so it goes.

---

After leaving me alone long enough that I was convinced it would not be back, the latest recurring dream recurred this morning. All the stuff I've mentioned before: the "space balloon," the orange man showing up with a bullet wound, me taking it out of him, the dining "car"/lounge, etc. But something new, as well. And I wish I'd made notes when I woke, because it's getting murky now. Then again, forgetting is better, most likely. I was moving down one of the balloon's narrow corridors, and there was a very pretty woman in furs and some sort of black plastic respirator fitted to her mouth and nose. It muffled her voice. She stopped me, talking about how "these flights are never on time," and slipped a foil triangle into my hand. Then she pushed past me, and I stood there holding the triangle, watching as it slowly unfolded, becoming a sort of rhomboid. In the dream, I understood what it was, and slipped it into an inner pocket of my coat. After holding it, I wanted badly to wash my hands. And then the "scene" shifted, the way dreams shift, and I was in a bombed-out concrete building somewhere, and it was so cold, freezing. Brutally cold. And the woman with the respirator was holding a knife to my throat and talking about "challenge response systems" (which I know is something I got from Bowie's Outside) and the South Korean Ministry of Information and Communication (and I have no idea where that came from). I could taste blood, and there was lightning, now and then. I sincerely wish that the Ambien had not ceased to have the dream dampening effects (or rather, the effect of causing me to forget dreams immediately upon waking) that I experienced with it for so long. Now I have this dreamsickness, and I'm trying to shake it off.

---

Please have a look at the current eBay. Thanks.

I suppose it's time to wrap this up and beg for coffee,

If I had my way, I'd change the name of this journal to something like "Sleep: The Silent Killer." Which is to say, if not for the heavy hand of controlling interests from the alter-ego combine Mericale, Hughes, Scheheraz'Odd & Touchshriek, Inc., and the venomous spurs of their platypus lackey, I would change the name of this journal. I do not know which is worse, the insomnia or the sleeping. It's a bloody toss up.

Yesterday was spent sitting in my office talking to Spooky about Joey Lafaye, trying to find a place where I can dig my nails in deep enough to hang on. Hours of talk about an unwritten book. I expect this would count towards insanity, were this a book that will not eventually become a written book. I smoked in my office, when I am only suppose to smoke outside, and so it stinks in here today. The conversation drifted to and fro and to again. Trying to find the title character, Joey, and trying to move away from the "fairy carnival" towards a "fairy shadow show" that will feel less like something I can be accused of having cadged from Ray Bradbury. The nature of twinship (should be a word, if it's not). And much talk regarding how badly I wanted this book to be not so dark a fantasy as my earlier novels, but how I suspect it'll be just as dark, regardless. I can only write what I have within me. A big stumbling block here, I fear, is that the book will be written in alternating chapters of a first-person diary and the third-person present tense. I can see the reviewers howling from here. Name me "inaccessible." It went on that way until about 4:30 p.m., when I could stand such talk no longer, and so, instead, I answered email. Today, we read through all that has been written thus far on the novel, and I'm not looking forward to that, either.

A reader wrote yesterday, via email, to say that "I'm writing because--from my admittedly limited perspective--terror and desperation don't really suit you." I am not naming the author, though sheheit may name herhimitself if sheheit so desires. I have to admit, I laughed out loud. The email was a response to what I said about standing at the precipice. And being terrified and all, as I approach this novel. Are there people whom "terror and desperation" do suit? And if so, why can't I be one of them? This is nothing new. Few things are as terrifying or so inspire desperation in me as beginning a new novel, and it only gets worse as the years go by.

I have an idea for an sf novella about a generation ship that's forced to become a sea-going vessel upon reaching a habitable extrasolar planet that has water oceans and atmosphere and earth-like gravity, etc., but no landmasses to speak off.

Oh, and I'm trying to find the soundtrack for this novel — for Joey Lafaye — as all my novels must have soundtracks, that music to which they are written. So far, this one has Tanya Donnelly, the Breeders, Brian Eno, the Beatles, Belly, and Smashing Pumpkins.

I received a rough sketch from Vince, his first go at "The Collector of Bones." I quite like what he's done, and look forward to seeing the final artwork.

Oh, and because I know this is a dreadfully dull entry, I will send a FREE signed copy of the trade paperback edition of Silk to the first person who correctly names the heavenly body which served as the icon for my entry early this morning on the new photos of Mercury. Just leave a comment here with your guess. First one posted wins. (And if you're reading this from MySpace, you'll have to go to LiveJournal [greygirlbeast] to see the entry in question.)*

Okay. I'm stalling. I know I'm stalling. It should be perfectly fucking obvious, right?

* Postscript (1:36 p.m.) — Contest closed. I think I should get a gold ribbon for being so tinked this afternoon as to forget that the icon is actually labeled "Ganymede." Oh, what a clever thing I am!

Six hours sleep. Yeah, sure, I can keep going on six hours sleep. I've done worse.

I woke up feel like someone had hit me in the chest, and, an hour and a half later, the sensation has not passed. It's not so much a physical feeling, but then I don't know what it would be instead, if not physical.

Yesterday, I did 1,332 words on a new piece for Sirenia Digest which I am calling "The Bone Collector." So, not a bad writing day, really.

I did not have the New Recurring Dream yesterday morning, and so I thought maybe it was done with me. Wrong. It was back this morning. Not another visit to the "space balloon," but I was very clearly that same version of me and stuck in that same world. For one thing, there was the huge fur coat, and Spooky says this is all because David Bowie turned 62 yesterday. Who am I to argue? Anyway, yeah, what I remember of the dream was chasing someone along an endless series of wet streets, like some looped bit of film noir. There were dogs barking everywhere, and all the windows I passed seemed lit from within by neon. There was the distant cacophony of what I think must have been artillery fire. I slipped on the wet pavement a couple of times and fell. I never even caught a glimpse of who or what I was chasing. I wound up warming my hands over a fire burning inside an old oil drum (or something of the sort), listening to a crazy woman talk about all the years she'd spent trying to find a building that was high enough that she could see where the sky ended. She was also warming her hands by the fire. Later, I was breaking beer bottles against a wall, and it seemed like the artillery sounds were coming nearer.

Not much to work with.

Oh, and yesterday, cliff52 had this to say about the dreams, about my doctoring the orange man's bullet wound: Were you dressing the wound, or was there something inside him that you had to have? And upon reading that, my first reaction was something like, "Great. Thanks. Just what I didn't need." To be forced to consider that possibility, I mean.

Explosion falls upon deaf ears,
While we're swimming in a sea of sham.
Living in the shadow of vanity,
A complex fashion for a simple man.

David Bowie, "The Motel"

I took Spooky out for sushi last night. She was feeling blue, and sometimes sushi helps. It has been very warm here, and there was a thunderstorm before I went to bed.

We still have auctions going, and you might also have a look at Spooky's latest doll, whose name is Clarra.

Also, a new study by by the Commonwealth Fund found "the United States dead last, in providing timely and effective healthcare to its citizens, according to a survey...of preventable deaths in 19 industrialized countries." Didn't we know that already, and, also, if it's called "Yahoo news," does that mean it's news for yahoos?

It's not a prayer, but it might do in a pinch...

To the crag that braves the tide,
To the beacon in the night,
I trust in you and
I'm watching over you.
To the souls that crouch in fear,
To the ghosts that disappear,
I trust in you and
I'm watching over you.

(Seabound, "Watching Over You")

At least, it's a nice thought.

Apparently, it seemed like a good idea to make up for having slept eight and a half hours night before last by only sleeping a little over six hours last night. Because I am one smart cookie. Huzzah.

So, yeah. I'm not awake.

Thanks to everyone who has reported Beowulf sightings since yesterday. I've gotten word of the book in Michigan, North Carolina, Atlanta, upstate New York, and Brooklyn. And apparently it's been on at least some bookshop shelves since Sunday. Go figure. I guess I'll see a copy when the stars are right or something.

I did 1,186 words on "Salammbô Redux" yesterday. It's a very strange process, expanding this story. Once or twice before, I've "finished" a story only to discover later on it wasn't finished. "Emptiness Spoke Eloquent" comes to mind (originally it was titled "Mina"). But, in those rare cases, I was merely adding to the ending, extending the story. With "Salammbô Redux," I'm expanding from points within the story, and having to do so in such a way that augments the original narrative, rather than disrupting or destroying it. And if you have not yet pre-ordered your copy of the 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, today would be a good time to do so.

Also, there's the Threshold auction (2nd edition).

Besides work yesterday, well, Spooky made a pot of chili, and we had a very nice walk through Freedom Park after dark. The moon, only one night from full, was again huge and so marvelously bright. I love moonshadows. Later was mostly Second Life, which was somewhat cooler than usual, which is saying a lot, considering it's only the Best. Toy Ever.

Oh, and I have two sets of contracts from Penguin to sign and get back in the mail today. One is the contract for the new edition of Silk, to be released in December. The other is for Joey Lafaye and the next novel after that (of course, the contract calls them BOOK I: UNTITLED BOOK #1 and BOOK II: UNTITLED BOOK #2). I hate reading contracts, but these need to go back into the mail today. Wait. I said that already.

Okay, the platypus says I can have coffee if I'll end this entry here, and there's no denying that platypus known my weak spots.

So, last night I was awake until at least 3:45 a.m., and when I finally did go to sleep, Spooky didn't. I think she slept four or five hours last night. We pass it back and forth like a bad cold, this goddamned sleeplessness.

I did several more hours editing on Tales of Pain and Wonder yesterday, and, finally, the manuscript is in pretty good shape. The worst of the tedium is now behind me. And I never cease to be amazed at the words MS Word's spellchecker does know how to spell when there are so many it can't. Oh, sure, it knows velcro and styrofoam, and insists that both be capitalized (a suggestion I ignore), and I'm starting to think there are corporations who pay MS to be included in the dictionary in hopes of protecting their trademarks and such. Anyway, yes, another long day of editing, but now it's mostly done.

Today is going to be a Day Off, even though I feel guilty taking a Day Off when there's so much work to be done. But I have not had one since September 9th, and I think 15 days is long enough. I'll come back tomorrow and return to "Salammbô Redux" (née "Little Conversations"), which I hope to finish by Sunday. Because September is almost gone, and I still have not started Joey LaFaye or gotten back to the "Onion" screenplay. More time, that's all I want. More conscious, alert time. I want to be good for more than six or seven hours' work a day. Twelve would be nice.

Up above
Aliens hover
Making home movies
For the folks back home

Of all these weird creatures
Who lock up their spirits
Drill holes in themselves
And live for their secrets (Radiohead, "Subterranean Homesick Alien")

Oh, and I need to get my list done for the Horror Book of Lists, though I presently have no idea what sort of list it will be. Also, we're limping back into eBay (which has almost managed to become more trouble than it is worth) with a copy of the Threshold paperback. Comes signed, and I'll personalize it if you so desire.

Okay. Yes. Today is a Day Off. But first I have to deal with email...

Postscript (1:10 p.m.) — Yes, it's true I did not write, edit, or proofread on Saturday, but I spent it cleaning house, which a) counts as work, and b) does not count as a day off.

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."

Last night, the insomnia demanded two Ambien, and so this morning...this afternoon, which I see it has become...my mind is no where near awake. Any moment now, the floor will drop out from beneath me to reveal the deepest, darkest part of the sea, and maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll realize that I'm only dreaming.

Yesterday was all proofreading, editing, and so forth, and there is nothing much there to write about. Towering waves of tedium, that's all.

Oh, but now I have iced coffee. Thank you, Spooky.

I've got to find the time and motivation to get back to the "Onion" screenplay, because not only do I have the very patient producer D waiting on it, I now also have a director of some considerable merit wanting a look at it, and here I am stuck in these endless hallways of proofing and editing. This could be the project that changes everything, and, somehow, I have spent the last few months not being able to find the bloody time to sit down and do it. I have promised myself I will return to the screenplay tomorrow night (as tomorrow day must be spent editing Tales of Pain and Wonder). Opportunity knocks, and it seems I'm too obsessed with commas to answer the frelling door.

I've been meaning to say, Spooky's done more of her mini-Cthulhu figures — the last of the bunch, I think — and you can see a photo of #3 in her Squid Soup blog, here. I adore these wee bastards. They are for sale. $40 each. Which reminds me, we need to get eBay going again (groan), because Victoria Regina (my old iBook) needs a new battery, and that's gonna set me back about $150.

Tomorrow is Mabon. I swear, this summer was half a blink, at most. The wheel turns.

Last night, Byron came for dinner and Doctor Who. We did the Vortex at L5P, and though last night's episode was very intriguing, "Blink" is a damned hard act to follow. Later, the three of us dropped by Videodrome for the director's cut of Tony Scott's True Romance. I have it on VHS, but it's frelling pan and scan, and Byron has it on DVD, but can't find it. And we'd started reciting lines during dinner, so how else were we supposed to spend the last two hours of Friday night? After Byron headed for home, Spooky and I did just a dab of Second Life, because New Babbage grew by one-third its total size yesterday with the arrival of the Port Babbage sim. Right now, it's a flat expanse of rock and drying seaweed, crisscrossed by freshly lain railroad. Soon it will the bustling commercial heart of the city. I think we were in bed by 1:30 a.m., and Spooky read another two chapters of Dune aloud. And then I proceeded not to be able to fall asleep.

Today, we're going to take a break from editing long enough to clean house, because some times these things simply have to be done — so grab a broom, Mr. Platypus...