Yeah, two days with no entries. There's just no way to make day after day of the minutiae of proofreading interesting. But, yesterday we did "Bradbury Weather," which brought us to the end of the eight stories in A is for Alien. And taking it all at once, over just four days, these tales written between 2003 and 2007, I am really quite pleased with the collection. It's a better book than Tales of Pain and Wonder, a far better book than From Weird and Distant Shores, and probably even better than Alabaster and To Charles Fort, With Love. There is a certain overt repetition of central themes, and at first that bothered me. But, really, it's no different than what Angela Carter did in, say, The Bloody Chamber (1979), and I am always happy to make "mistakes" like those. Anyway, the contracts on the book have been signed, and today they go in the post to subpress, and the ms. goes off to Sonya Taaffe (sovay) in Massachusetts for a thorough proofreading. As soon as subpress starts taking pre-orders, I'll let you know. There will be a chapbook included with this collection, though I'm still finalizing its contents.

And speaking of Sonya, congratulations on what I hear was a very well received reading at ICFA.

So, it's been something like thirty six days since I came down with the flu (started showing symptoms on February 13th, the day I had to be in Birmingham for the second round of dentistry). And, twelve tins of Altoids later, the goddamn wracking cough is still with me. It's a little better, but not nearly better enough. At least it got me off cigarettes again. The desire to smoke utterly vanished as soon as I got sick last month. Meanwhile, Spooky's ears are still giving her fits, and she has four days of antibiotics left.

Not a whole lot else to say about the last few days, really. I managed to go from Saturday afternoon (March 15th) to yesterday without leaving the house, a total of eight days. My record is, I think, eleven, set back in 1998 or so. And now we have a cold snap, so I won't be going out today (in fact, I hear rumours of snow flurries this ayem). But Spooky did drag me out yesterday, all the way to Freedom Park. She's spending most of her time searching for an apartment or house in Providence, and we have some hopeful leads. I packed the first two boxes yesterday, one shelf from one bookcase in my office, an exercise which led to the rather grim conclusion that, by a conservative estimate, we'll be packing a minimum of 140 boxes of books (printing paper boxes from Staples, Kinkos, etc.). Never mind all the boxes of comp copies of my various books. Another twenty or so there, but they are mostly already packed.

Saturday night, Byron came over for a couple of episodes of Torchwood. We are already missing him, and truly, there won't be much else to miss about this city. We're well into Season Five of Angel, having watched "Life of the Party" and "The Cautionary Tale of Numero Cinco" (later Saturday night).

A nice reader comment from Friday's entry, courtesy fuchsiafalling:

Love your books. Love seeing us queers in fiction as just regular old main characters, the plot being about something other than queerness, it just being NBD. It thrills me.

It's the way I've almost always approached writing about queerness. Two editors once rejected a story (this was back in '95 or so) because, although the two main characters were lesbians, the story was not about them being lesbians. The editors lamented the fact that "they just happened to be lesbians," and that I'd not used the opportunity to explore the social ramifications of lesbianism. Never mind that the story was set at least a hundred years in the future, and that I have no bloody idea (and neither does anyone else) what it will mean to be a lesbian in the 22nd Century. But, yes. Thank you.

A big night for me in Second Life last night, as Nareth (well, the Nareth in Toxian City) stopped being a somewhat cybernetic Nephilim bound to two aspects of the same demon, and recently driven to some schizophrenia-like dementia, and became, instead, a rather spectacular vampire. My thanks to omegamorningsta, Lorne, Larissa, Pontifex, Merma, Denny, and the rest of the Omega Institute for a marvelous night of rp. As Lorne (the aforementioned demon) observed "You are a vampire wrought of one with an angel's soul. Some might consider you something more profaned than a vampire wrought from a human, but such is the perspective of overzealous idiocy...You are a diamond crucifix turned to a ruby dagger for drawing hearts out of supplicants..." Nice. But the really cool thing about this scene — or so it struck me — is that we had players from the US to Nova Scotia to Madrid to Brisbane, making almost a complete global loop, all working together to create story in realtime. Awesome.

Okay. There's coffee out there somewhere.

Today, Gary Oldman is 50 years old. That's why you get the Vlad and Mina icon, because one of my Hollywood fixations is now half a century old.

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And now it is spring. And, here in Atlanta, a bright, sunny spring day it is. I pulled back the curtain in my office to let in the sun. I have survived another winter. And if you are someone who observes the Wiccan sabbats, I wish you a fine Ostara (though, of course, the actual equinox was yesterday). For me, spring is hope, the nearest I come to hope, hope and a balm against the hardness of winter, a season that more closely approximates my usual mental state — and it is a promise of the coming of summer.

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Spooky (humglum) is feeling pretty miserable, and she still has six days left on her antibiotics. We've been trying to work around her being so under the weather. But it's all editing, proofreading, etc. Wednesday, we read through "The Ape's Wife," because I wanted to go over it again before sending a "fresh" e-copy to Steve Jones for The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror (#19). Also, I started printing the manuscript of A is for Alien, though I didn't finish printing it until yesterday. On Thursday, we started proofing that, and made it through "Riding the White Bull" and "Zero Summer," a little better than the first 100 pp. Reading "Riding the White Bull" was rather annoying, as I'd somehow managed to print out a version that was neither the draft that sold to Argosy nor the reprint draft, and whole passages where missing. Anyway, I hope to have finished this read through by tomorrow evening, at which point I'll send the manuscript away to Sonya (sovay) for a proper proofreading.

Not much to report, aside from work. In a fit of annoyed depression over not being able to make the appearance at the O'Neil Literary House, I think I tried to do myself in with Second Life on Wednesday evening/Thursday morning, at least twelve hours, and I didn't get into bed until about 5:30 ayem. Insanity. We've finished Season Four of Angel, and last night began Season Five with "Conviction" and "Just Rewards." And I'm having to be annoyed all over again that such a rare bit of wonderful television fantasy was canceled in its prime (despite good ratings and rave reviews). The suits rule the world; we just dance here.

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We've taken a short break from eBay, but expect to get it going again in the next few days, because the medical bills are still here, and I'm no closer to having any sort of health care than I was a month ago (and the blasted taxes are looming just ahead). In the meanwhile, if you have not already subscribed to Sirenia Digest, the first day of spring, says Herr Platypus, is just about the best time to do so. This month, you'll get "Pickman's Other Model," and, well, something else, most likely.

Sir Arthur C. Clarke has died. From 2001: A Space Odyssey to Childhood's End, a notable influence on my own writing, on themes addressed in my own sf, and a remarkable human being.

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We made it all the way through the proofreading of "Pickman's Other Model" yesterday (44 ms. pp.; for Sirenia Digest #28). But between my cough and Spooky aching ear, we did not get to "The Ape's Wife" or begin reading the A is for Alien ms. That'll be today.

And, again, here are the links for my books, those presently in print, the most recent editions, the ones I have to worry about sales figures for:

Daughter of Hounds

Silk

Threshold

Low Red Moon

Murder of Angels

Tales of Pain and Wonder

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There resides in our freezer the remains of a Peep that we began either experimenting upon or torturing (take your pick) way back in either 2003 or 2004. It's been subjected to microwaves and repeated freezing and thawing, over four or five years now. Amazingly, you can still see its "eyes." It stands as my salute to Corporate Xtian Holidays Stolen From Pagan Sources©. And as proof of the durability of certain supposed foodstuffs. There are two photos (warning — nasty) behind the cut, which Spooky took day before yesterday:

( not food )

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Ostara is upon us again. If she's up to it, Spooky and I will observe the sabbat Friday night.

And there's really not much else to be said for now. It's grey and dreary out, not quite cold, not quite warm, and I'm wishing I were anywhere but here; okay, well, not anywhere....

Hello? Anyone out there listening? I hope so, because this experiment is a failure, and I'd really like to come back home now. I know, I thought it would be exciting and perhaps even enjoyable, getting a close look at humanity on the eve of its collective apocalyptic suicide, but I was mistaken. It's just sad and ugly, and I hate this world, and I'm tired, and I want to go home. I really don't mind walking out of the theatre before the story's over, and it's quite okay that my "Visa" won't expire for another seventeen years. I won't complain, and I won't ask for a refund. I've seen enough, and it's not like I don't already know where this worldline is headed.

So, whoever's monitoring 2007, I know how closely you keep tabs on the internet. I'm a reasonable woman; you can even keep the deposit. Enough is enough, please.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Yesterday, we proofed "Mercury," which, aside from a few commas, was actually in very good shape. Then I began trying to work my way through all the red marks, and was reminded that my greatest talent might be underestimation. In yesterday's entry, I was foolish enough to write, "then I begin the actually editing, which I hope to have completed by tomorrow evening or Thursday evening at the latest."

Hah!

Kiernan, you're a blasted idiot.

It took us more than two hours just to get through "Anamorphosis" and "To This Water (Johnstown, Pennsylvania 1889)." Given there are twenty stories left to go, and that the marks on many of them are far heavier, it quickly became obvious that I would have to hand this job off to Spooky so I can get back to, you know, actually writing new stories. I'll still need to spend a full day, at least, taking care of various things she won't know what to do with. And, I shit you not, the last year is a goddamn tedious blur of proofreading, editing, and rewriting. Tales from the Woeful Platypus, Daughter of Hounds, Threshold, Low Red Moon, Murder of Angels, Silk, Beowulf, and all sorts of other little odds and ends. Enough for me. My nerves are frayed, and there's not time left for making old stories better. I have to write Joey Lafaye in the next six months. I need to get back to the "Onion" screenplay in the next week or so. I have to get Sirenia Digest #22 out, and finish "Salammbô Redux" (a.k.a "Little Conversations"). And that's more than I can manage.

Nothing much to be said for yesterday. The sacred frelling trinity of any writer: Stress, Exhaustion, and Frustration. Yeah, those were here, one, two three. I watched John Ford's Stagecoach (1939) on TCM, because I'm a sucker for drunkard doctors and whores with hearts of gold. I read dispiriting things about Pakistan in the new issue of National Geographic. I ate jelly beans and watched the rain and stayed away from the liquor shelf in the pantry. That was yesterday.

Have you ever heard a platypus laugh? It's not a pretty sound.

The esteemed Monsieur Insomnia returned last night, and I did not find sleep until after 4 a.m., even with the Ambien. So, whatever it is that I am this morning, it's not awake. So, to be safe, let's keep this short, Caitlín dear. Sleeping people should not be entrusted with speaking in public forums. It's too hard to tell where here begins and there ends...or vice versa.

As announced yesterday, Tonight, I will be the guest author at the Lost and the Damned Chatroom. I go on at 9 p.m. EST and will be answering questions on just about any aspect of my work. I'm not sure how long this shindig will run, but I'm guessing at least an hour. Please drop in. In all my thirteen or so years of publishing, this is the very first time I've ever done anything like this. Come early and get a good seat.

Yesterday, we spent five and a half hours on the CEM, and only did...hold on, let me check...169 pages of the manuscript. A little better than halfway through. The rest has to be done this afternoon, even though I should be writing The Dinosaurs of Mars. Checking over copy-edited mss. is such a tedious, loathsome job, a part of writing I do indeed detest. My standing advice to copy-editors: You are not writers, at least when it comes to copy-editing. Your job is not to rewrite what I have written. Your job is only to identify grammatical errors, misspelling, continuity problems, etc. That's it. If you want to write something, do it on your own dime. Which is to say, the all-mighty STET is my best friend right now. I swear to the beady-eyed, insomniac gods of wordsmithing, before I have to face another gorram CEM, I'm going to have a rubber stamp made that reads STET, and I can just stamp the word in blood-red ink. It will be satisfying, smacking the stamp against the page over and over and over and over and...well, you get the picture. Also, I wish that someone would please, please, please get all CEs everywhere on the same wavelength as far as comma rules are concerned. Every copy-editor, they want to handle commas differently. And me, I know there are no consistent rules, no truly standard, logically consistent rules. But I have arbitrarily chosen those that suit me best, and it pisses off when someone tries to enforce a different set of equally arbitrary rules. Anyway, yeah, back to the CEM today, because I always underestimate by at least half how long it will take to deal with one of these beasts.

As for the rest of yesterday: By the time the proofing was done (7:30 p.m.), Spooky and I were both too tired for dinner with Byron (postponed until tomorrow night), and too tired to cook, so we got sushi from Whole Foods. We had a walk about 10 p.m., I think. Well after dark. A thunderstorm was blowing in from the southwest, and there was brilliant lightning over Freedom Park. An enormous owl emerged from the trees and fluttered past, only ten or twenty feet ahead of us, and I think that gave us both chillbumps, especially with all the lightning going on. Later, I did the Second Life thing. Shortly after I arrived in Babbage, I bumped into Cyan Taurog, who happens to be sleepycyan on LJ. So, I gave her a quick tour. Later, I met with Sir Arthur, who gave me the "keys" to the apartment I'm renting from him while the house is built. Also, he very kindly provided me with a lesson in editing prims, and then Spooky and I spent the rest of the evening furnishing the place. It's a gorgeous spot, second floor and a sea-view from the balcony, across the street from the Museum of Jurassic Technology and above Ruby Flanagan's pub (which is not yet open for business). We still have some furnishings and bric-a-brac to move in, and I have to get my workshop set up, but if you happen to be in Babbage (Babbage Canals) and would like to pay a visit, please just IM first (Nareth Nishi). Guests are always welcome, unless I'm busy, in which case they might be slightly less so. Which is why you should IM first. See? I'm talking in circles. Lack of sleep.

Okay. Time to kick the platypus...er, I mean...time to make the doughnuts. Yeah.

Yeah, so, I am insomnia's bitch. There's no point denying it any longer. Last night, I was asleep by 1:30 a.m., very early (for me) and awake on and off from about 7 a.m. on. At 8:30, I gave up and crawled from bed to my office and the computer and went to work on a new Wikipedia article (Plioplatecarpinae). These are my mornings. There's not enough coffee and Red Bull in whole wide frelling world right now.

Yesterday...yesterday...yesterday. I know it's here somewhere. Ah. Yes. Here it is. Yesterday, we proofed "Bainbridge" (pp. 117-159), which I'd begun to have second thoughts about, but which I have come to think works after all. On the one hand, I want to talk about what a fantastically weird story it is, and on the other, I absolutely don't want to give anything away. When the book arrives, you are all, every last one of you, forbidden to read "Bainbridge" first, and never mind that I included that alternative Table of Contents. Anyway, after "Bainbridge," I proofed the introduction, and today Spooky will type up all the corrections, and then I'll e-mail them away to Subterranean Press (which is currently experiencing some sort of server problem; the website's been down since yesterday).

My editor at Penguin wanted the "final" draft of Daughter of Hounds back in NYC by May 5th, but I asked for more time and now have until May 15th. But not one day later, and this means I'll likely only have a week with the CEM (copyedited ms.). That last bit's not too daunting, as I've gotten pretty damn fast at writing "stet" in the margins of CEMs. Anyway, I do appreciate the extra time and thank my editor for that. I had a talk about the book with Merrilee, my lit agent, on Monday. She says my children read like children, which must be my greatest achievement since I managed to write a pregnant protagonist in Low Red Moon. Well, at least I have been a child, even if it was way back there in the Age of Trilobites, so maybe it's not quite as great an achievement as was pulling off Chance's pregnancy. Anyway, between the talk with Merrilee and my editor's notes, and all the editing I didn't get done before I sent the ms. away in March, I've an enormous amount of editing to do in the next six weeks or so. Monday or Tuesday I have to go to Birmingham, but as soon as we return I'll be getting back to work on DoH. And somewhere in all this I still have to write the chapbook to accompany the limited (sold out) of Alabaster, and also the two vignettes for Sirenia Digest #6. Clearly, April and the first half of May are shot. I'm going to need some major stress release to get through all this without breaking things I probably shouldn't break. Perhaps if someone were kind and generous enough to send me the new Tomb Raider (PS2)*...

After all the proofreading yesterday, Spooky and I took blankets and suchlike and went to Freedom Park. We sat beneath the greening oaks and I read to her from Drawing Down the Moon while she worked at sanding the oak wand she's been finishing. It was nice. Later, she fixed a truly magnificent stir fry for dinner: porta bella and shitake mushrooms, cucumber, roma tomato, red onion, garlic, red bell pepper, thai chilis, cashews, lemongrass, and sesame in a sauce of red curry paste, rice vinegar, Tamari soy sauce, and fresh lime. Over jasmine rice. With spring rolls. We both ate too much, I'm sure.

Oh, this morning Vince e-mailed me his initial sketch for the illustration to accompany "For One Who Has Lost Herself," and it's headed in exactly the right direction. We may yet get this issue out on time.

Okay. That's it for now. With Alabaster almost out of the way, I think I get a little bit of downtime today. But tomorrow I'll likely begin the aforementioned chapbook. If not tomorrow, then on Friday. Anyway, I hear the mournful call of the platypus...


*Conveniently, it's on my wishlist.