Yesterday, I was reading John J. Pierce's Odd Genre: A Study in Imagination and Evolution (Greenwood Press; Westport, CT, 1994), when I came across this rather wonderful passage:

Cordwainer Smith's opening passage from "Scanner's Live in Vain" (1950) may be the acid test of a reader's taste for science fiction. A genre reader, coming across this scene for the first time, will think, 'I don't know what a "scanner" is, or how he adjusts his blood away from anger, or why he has to "cranch," but I've got to find out.' A nongenre reader, by contrast, is more likely to think, "This is gibberish — I don't know what's going on here, and I don't even want to know.' Smith's technique of plunging his readers into such a strange situation is not universal in science fiction even today, yet "Scanners Live in Vain" illustrates a principle that is universal to sf: It is a literary juxtaposition, even a synthesis, of the strange and the familiar.

I wrote somewhere around 1,000 words yesterday. I don't have an exact count. I spent the entire day trying to write an afterword to A is for Alien. And then, finally, having finished the first section, and having had Spooky read it back to me, I realized that it was pedantic, and wearisome, and that mostly I was grinding an axe I have with a particular reviewer at Locus, which is not the sort of thing that a) I should be doing in public or b) expect anyone else to want to read or c) should burden the collection with. I'd had in mind an afterword that accomplished a number of objectives — justification of dystopian sf, examination of mankind's innate hatred and fear of the alien in itself (making the idea of "first contact" with an extrasolar civilization absurd), an explanation of why I feel science fiction should not be expected to have predictive value, and, lastly, confess that it does not bother me that I wear my literary influences on my sleeve. But...it would have gone on for at least four thousand words, and, as I said, it was terribly pedantic. I stopped writing and called Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press. We talked about the problem. I suggested I find someone else to write the afterword. He agreed that would be a good idea. A number of authors were discussed, people we might approach, and finally we settled on one we were both pleased with — Elizabeth Bear (matociquala). I asked her last night, and she kindly agreed. So, that's one thing I don't have to do in May.

Actually, I also spoke with the fellow who's publishing Joshi's Machen collection, and my deadline is not until July 30th, and he'll settle for 2,000 words, so that's something else I don't have to do this month. This means that today I can go back to work on The Red Tree (thanks, in large part, to the package of reference material and photos of the Moosup Valley region of western Rhode Island, which Spooky's mother helpfully gathered and sent to me). So, huzzah!

Also, note that subscribers can expect Sirenia Digest #30 a week or so early this month, sometime around the 21st, as I'm going to have to get it out of the way well ahead of the move (we leave Atlanta on the 29th, a mere 20 [!!!] days away, if we do not count today). And if you are not a subscriber, now's as good a time as any to correct that.

A couple of links. I wanted to repost the Green Porno link, Isabella Rossallini's bug porn, as it really is marvelous stuff. I've been making myself watch only one or two a day, so it'll last a few days (so far, my favorite is "Snail"). Also, my thanks (again) to robyn_ma for this link to Evan Dorkin's take on the phenomenon of furcons. Spooky and I laughed until we bled. Truthfully, I had nothing at all in particular against furries until I started Second Life, where they are, quite simply, a plague. Just try helming the bridge of a Federation starship when your captain is an anthropomorphic "funny animal" fox. Just try! Sure, I'm a pervert, and I have more than my fair share of parahuman and paraphilic turn-ons (Isabella Rossellini bug porn, for example), but really people.

My cold is much, much better.

Last night? Byron dropped by with Season Two of Millennium on DVD, so we can watch it as quickly as we want and don't have to wait on Netflix. We watched the first three eps — "The Beginning and the End," "Beware of the Dog," and "Sense and Antisense." As good as Season One was, Season Two is much better. Later, I did maybe an hour, an hour and a half of SL rp, so my thanks to Pontifex and Omega. Then Spooky read to me from House of Leaves until we were too sleepy to think anymore.

Postscript (3:05 pm): I meant to include this in the morning's entry, and forgot. The opening monologue for the first episode of Season Two of Millennium, which gave me shivers (behind the cut):

( Beginning and the End )

So, even though there is absolutely no time for being sick, I'm sick. Hard to tell yet just how sick, but sick enough. It started off yesterday morning as a scratchy throat. Thing is, Spooky's been sick for almost a week, and every time I'd ask her about it, she'd tell me it was just allergies caused by the dust we're stirring up packing. To me, she looked sick, not allergic, but hey, she ought to know. So I didn't worry about catching it. But now I'm sick. Last night, fevers and chills. We have to hope this fucker is short lived, because here it is May 6th, and we leave Atlanta on Thursday, May 29th for Providence. And there is all the packing, and a mountain of work, and deadlines and scheduling that simply can not be Put Off Until Later. I used up all my sick time, back in February. And, possibly the worst problem here is that colds and flu often (since the mid '80s) leave me with a severe cough that can last, literally, for months. After I had the flu in February, I coughed an additional six weeks. And the bad tooth cannot be pulled if I'm coughing, because then it won't heal properly. So. Yeah. It's sort of a disaster.

Yesterday. We spent eight hours (1-9 pm) working on the corrections to A is for Alien, and we're still not done. So, that will be today. We also need to take books back to the Emory University library, but that may have to wait until tomorrow. Today, I get more misplaced or missing commas, fact checking, clumsy word repetitions, and other assorted tedium. Oh, and a good example of why sf writers should worry only just so much about the science in their sf stories. When I wrote "Zero Summer" in the summer of 2005, Saturn was believed to have 43 moons, but now, revising the story in 2007, I know that Saturn has more than 60 confirmed natural satellites. But the story is set in the nearish future. By then, we may know that Saturn has 80 moons. Do I stick with 60, knowing that astronomers consider that number provisional? Do I "guesstimate" ahead? Do I revise the story again in a few years? Frankly, the facts are hardly relevant to the truths of the story, so screw it.

My thanks to robyn_ma for pointing out that I can now actually see Isabella Rossellini's "bug porn" (Green Porno) at the Sundance Channel website. Yesterday, the site wasn't letting me in; today it is. Oh, and yes, I have downloaded the new, free NIN, and I'm listening to it now.

At some point yesterday, I left Spooky alone to work on the corrections to A is for Alien. I lay down on the sofa, thinking I could at least read the next chapter of Chris Beard's book on primate origins, but, instead, the best I could manage was an hour of being half asleep, dreaming though I was partly still awake. Later, late last night, Spooky read me more from House of Leaves, the terrible scene on the staircase, Navidson trapped alone at the bottom when it suddenly grows to impossible proportions, Tex's story of the sinking of the Atrocity. Not the perfect thing before bed, so then she read me Robert McCloskey's Time of Wonder (1957), which won a Caldecott Medal and is one of my all time favourite children's books. "Where do hummingbirds go in a hurricane?" Beautiful.

I got the following from Alan S. Montroso, via email, "...As was your story "Concerning Attrition and Severance"; its imagery and majesty have haunted me through the weekend. I understand why you felt it belonged in the obscurity of a closed drawer, but I am also grateful such a cruel creature has been unleashed." Thank you, Alan. It's good to see these reactions, because the story's out there now, and there's no pulling it back in. Comments on Sirenia Digest #29 are still welcome, by the way.

I haven't given the list of books in print in a while, so here it is again. And, though it might be cheaper and the "green" thing to do, buying used copies of my novels from Amazon, sadly, in no way helps my sales figures. Sadder still, I have to actually think about shit like sales figures:

Daughter of Hounds

Silk

Threshold

Low Red Moon

Murder of Angels

Tales of Pain and Wonder

And here's the Amazon wish list, because, after all, this has been declared my Royal Birthday Month and -04 is a mere 20 days away.

There's a lot more of substance I wanted to write about this morning, but I feel like unto butt, and somehow I have to make it through the remainder of the corrections to A is for Alien.

I did not write yesterday. Instead, I stepped back and tried to see the source of my doubt regarding what I have written thus far on The Red Tree. In part, it's the absence of the prologue/ forward/ introduction/ editor's note thing I'd planned to write after we get to Rhode Island. That seems clear now, as that part of the book is the part that sets the stage for the reader, and, it would appear, the writer. So, I need to backtrack and try to write it now, though it may be tomorrow before I get that far, far enough to begin it.

Instead of writing, yesterday was almost all reading. Many more chapters of House of Leaves, plus a bit of Stephen King's Carrie (1974). Because I wanted to see how King handled the "book about the book embedded within the book" problem with his The Shadow Exploded: Documented Cases and Specific Conclusions Derived from the Case of Carietta White by David R. Congress. Spooky read aloud to me, as is usually the case, what with my left eye being blind and the right eye tiring so quickly. And I packed a few boxes of books. I stayed off Second Life until after midnight. I fear I am at long, long last losing patience with SL, but that's an entry unto itself.

We made a trip out to Videodrome, because I wanted to see Stephen Soderbergh's superb adaptation of Stanislaw Lem's Solaris (2002) again, mainly to try and pick up a little of the mood. It's such a perfect film. I need to add it to my Amazon.com wishlist, and seeing it again also reminded me I've been meaning to put together a list of my "Favourite SF Films Since 1980."

Yesterday felt like a "seizure day," and I kept waiting, but it never came. I do not know how to explain those rare instances when I feel as if they're coming. But I'm usually right. Maybe I ought to call it "seizure weather." Anyway, I'm very glad that I was wrong yesterday.

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

Yesterday I did not get back on the horse (to extend a metaphor from one day to the next), but I did nuzzle that spot behind its left ear and give it a kiss and a few sugar cubes. That's a start. Mostly, I worked on figuring out what will and will not be in the subpress sf collection, which might be titled A is for Alien and might be titled Bradbury Weather and Other Stories. Here's what I now know — The book will be released sometime in early 2009. It will consist of eight stories, and there will be an accompanying chapbook with one or two more short pieces. I'm not posting the Table of Contents yet, but I probably will soon. The word count comes to 65,885 words, but may go a little higher if I do an introduction or afterword. So, emails were exchanged with Bill Schafer yesterday, working all this out. Today, I may have time to get a rough version of the ms. put together. No word yet on when it will be available for pre-orders.

I still have not answered a great deal of the email that's coming in, well wishes and very generous offers for assistance of one sort of another with my medical expenses. I'm still trying to get through them, and I apologize to those people I've not yet written back. I will point readers towards the ongoing eBay auctions, and suggest that subscribing to Sirenia Digest is a very good way to help out. Or pick up a copy of Daughter of Hounds (new, not "used"). Any of these options would be a great way to help out at this point.

Tomorrow, it's back to the dentist to have the other molar fixed.

Last night, we watched three more eps of Angel ("The Trial," "Reunion," and "Redefinition"). Season Two is definitely better than Season One, and I have to admit that the scenes between Darla and Dru in "Reunion" were, well, easy on the eyes...if you get my drift. And after that, I thought about reading, but ended up on Second Life, roleplaying in Toxian City, where I assisted one of the Omega Institute's praetors in setting up a protective ward, involving fetish and phylactery, to shield the library from future attacks. Which was really a lot more fun than it might sound. And then the insomnia kicked in, and it was after 5 ayem before I got to sleep. That was yesterday.

Now I have to wash my hair....

A strange barrage of dreams just before waking this morning, or a barrage of strange dreams. More likely the latter. The dreams were stranger than the barrage itself. You were there, sovay. A staircase that seemed to lead unexpected places, places that it should not. A five-and-a-half-minute staircase. I really wish I could remember more of it.

I have fallen off the horse, as they say. Between the sickness, worrying about the sickness and the bills it has spawned, the exhaustion, the winter, and the easy distractions of technology, I have fallen off the horse.That is, I am not writing. I have not written since the 30th, and I have more dental surgery on Wednesday, which is helping to keep me from getting back on the horse. But...the horse is all that matters. I am now dreadfully behind on this novel — behind in the sense that it has a due date, and I can only write so fast, and I will not rush it. Regardless of my health, regardless of uncertainty, I have to start writing again. As soon as possible or sooner. It does not matter if I only want to go back to bed every day. It matters that Joey Lafaye is written and written well, as I am a writer, and a writer who does not write is no longer a writer. I suppose this is what they call a "pep talk." From me to me and aimed at no one and nothing else.

And now, that I have been shown so much generosity, and now that at least the financial worries have been greatly lessened, that's an excuse I can't use to justify the fact that I am not writing. Since I became a writer, or rather, a published author, I have written through illness and chaos, through pain and doubt, and that's all I have to do now. Something I have done plenty enough times before. What I will do so long as I am alive.

And yes, I am rather saddened by the news of Roy Scheider's death. And despite all the unfortunate films he took part in, he also made some very fine films — Jaws, All That Jazz, Sorcerer, Marathon Man, etc..

---

The eBay auctions continue. Also, if you can, please consider a subscription to Sirenia Digest. Or pick up one of the new mass-market paperback editions of the novels. Once again, here are the links to the correct Amazon pages:

Daughter of Hounds

Silk

Threshold

Low Red Moon

I think that I am beginning to favor A is for Alien for the title of the sf collection. That was my original title, and I only began to consider others because Neil released M is for Magic last year, and I sort of felt that I'd been beaten to the punch. I was probably being silly.

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Not much else to say about yesterday. There was a walk that should have been longer, but the wind made my teeth and ears ache, so we didn't get very far at all. Last night, I tried to watch a National Geographic channel documentary on the consequences of global warming, but it was one of those cases where things had been dumbed so far down and were being stated so poorly that I gave up after an hour. We watched another episode of Angel ("The Shroud of Rahmon"). We went to bed.

Oh, and once again, the link to the transcript from Shahrazad's Water of Life ceremony, which I finally finished and posted. I tried to make this one less like a transcript, more like prose, where possible. It's sort of like writing.

And lastly, a rather nice review of the Beowulf novelization at "The Book Swede and his Blog."

Colder again today, but knowing that spring is near helps.

Here's a nice little write up from "The Agony Column" regarding the forthcoming third edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder. The piece was posted way back on November 11th, but I only just saw it yesterday. Obviously, I don't agree with its take on the cover of the Meisha-Merlin edition, but that is a small affair. I do rather adore being called an "odd writer," especially when that comment is followed with these sorts of comments: Her work is at once visionary and hyper-real, shrouded in the supernatural yet anchored in the gritty evocation of our hardscrabble lives. Reading almost anything she has written, you might find yourself thinking "Faulkner" one second and "Lovecraft" the next. These are not names or styles that rest comfortably close beyond those pages penned by Kiernan. So, yes, thank you, Rick Kleffel. Lovecraft and Faulkner I can live with.

When I was talking to Bill Schafer at subpress yesterday (or was it the day before?) about the sf collection, he told me that I "could not allow this book to become a burden." And he's right. A big part of what he was referring to is the nightmare of copy-editing and revision I took upon myself in preparing the ms. for the third edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder. Between my poor health and all the work that must be done for Sirenia Digest and the writing of Joey Lafaye, there simply is not time or energy to put myself through that again. Fortunately, however, all the stories that will be included in the sf collection are recent, and I have not yet grown uncomfortable with their voices, or, rather, with the voice I wrote them in. The oldest of the stories, "Riding the White Bull," was written in 2003 (as opposed to 1994 with Tales of Pain and Wonder). But yes, no burden this time out. I promise.

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Again, my great thanks for the generosity, the donations that have come in the last four days, the eBay bids, the well wishes, and the new Sirenia Digest subscribers (some from as far away as Australia!). All of you, thanks. I thought about trying to list everyone by name, but the list would be gigantic, and I would inevitably leave someone out. So, please accept this blanket expression of my gratitude. For now, the medical/dental expenses are covered, which I find nothing short of amazing, given how worried I was about money as recently as Wednesday morning. Now, I can simply concentrate on getting well and getting Joey Lafaye written, and that is such a huge relief that it is rather dizzying. Overwhelming, as I have said. You guys are the draddest, which is to say, you rock. I'm not putting the PayPal button up again today, but the eBay auctions continue, and it's never too late to subscribe to the Digest.

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About 5:30 pm yesterday, we had a walk. The weather was good, just a little nip in the air. The dogwoods have buds. The Narcissus do, as well, and the Camellias have bloomed. Mostly, we walked up and down Sinclair, as far south and east as the intersection with Carmel Avenue. There are a few photos behind the cut:

( February 9, 2008 )

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Last night, well, not much to last night, but we did catch two new episodes of Torchwood. And now, the platypus says I'm being a slacker, and the coffee has not yet magically appeared. Damned unreliable caffeine gnomes.

A bit of advice: if you're the sort of person who lists "white nation" in your LJ interests, the sort who writes of posting to the Stormfront White Nationalist Community, who brags about her hatred for just about anyone who isn't white and heterosexual and believes that hatred is a virtue, who thinks the world is under the thumb of a Zionist conspiracy...you should not be reading this journal. In fact, I'll go one further. I don't want you reading this journal, and I certainly do not want you showing up on the list of people who have "friended" me. I am asking you to please "unfriend" me. Now. You have already been banned from commenting ever again. And no, I do not believe that my tolerance requires me to tolerate intolerance of this magnitude. I am your worst enemy, the thing you hate and rail against, the thing that makes your racist skin crawl — a fact you somehow seem to have missed — and I do not want your eyes on my words. Go away.

With that said...

Here in Atlanta it is dangerously hot. The ozone's in the red. Right now, it's 95F with a 101F heat index. Same as yesterday.

As for yesterday, I didn't write. I didn't even try. Spooky and I escaped the worst of the day's heat in a matinee screening of Danny Boyle's Sunshine at Midtown Arts Cinema. Gods, how I love this film. My admiration for it was only increased by a second viewing. Used to, at least once a year there would be a film I loved so much I'd pay theatre prices to see it again and again and again: Pulp Fiction (9 times in the theatre); Dark City (4 times); The Matrix (5 times); The Fifth Element (9 times). My all-time record is The Empire Strikes Back (because I've always been a dork), which I managed to see no less than 20 times in the theatre. The last time this happened was in 2001 with Moulin Rouge (5 times). It's been six years since I've paid to see any film in theatres more than once, a change in behaviour that has mainly been due to rude, noisy audience members and high ticket prices. But yes. Sunshine. See it on a big screen while you can. Undoubtedly one of my favourite sf films of the last decade. The DVD will be along shortly, but there's no way it will be as spectacular an experience as seeing the film at the cinema. This time through, I think what struck me most about Sunshine is that, when all is said and done, it's a story about joy. Even through all the death and mishap and horror, joy is at the white-hot heart of it. Joy and awe.

After the movie, back out in the scorch, we stopped by Borders on Ponce and I thumbed through Gardner Dozois' The Year's Best Science Fiction 24, which I'd not bought yet. I was extremely pleased to see both "Bradbury Weather" and "The Pearl Diver" singled out and praised in "Summation: 2006," as well as getting honourable mentions at the back of the book. Also, I was unaware that "Faces in Revolving Souls" had received an honourbale mention in last year's volume. Maybe this will help me to get over that Locus review of The Dry Salvages I've spent the last three years fretting about (never mind that "Riding the White Bull" was chosen for The Year's Best Science Fiction 22). Anyway, yes, that was nice.

Later, last night, Chapter 26 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and some good freeform roleplaying in Second Life. Thank you, Molly Underwood.

And today is the release date for the mmp of Low Red Moon, which I hope you'll get, even if you've already read the book. This text differs slightly from the 2003 tpb, mainly in having many, many corrections. Thank you.

Okay. It's 2:06 p.m. and the words need to flow again. Later, kiddos.

Subterranean Press is now taking orders for the forthcoming 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder. Just click here to place your order.

Today I'm going to try to actually write something.

And Spooky will be finishing with the Silk page proofs, I think. And there was rain this morning, and more is on the way.

Yesterday evening, we saw Danny Boyle's Sunshine. I loved it. No, it's not the sort of hard sf that comes across like someone's astrophysics dissertation with a plot. This is a story primarily concerned with psychology, not physics or astronomy, and it should be viewed as such. Even if it fell flat emotionally — which it doesn't — Sunshine would be superb eye- and ear-candy. This is a film about awe, about the mind's struggle to cope with the vastness of space and time and consciousness, about loss and mortality and isolation. A lot of what I was trying to do in The Dry Salvages can be found in Sunshine. But if you go into it grousing about the absurdity of the premise or the fact that we never find out how the Icaraus II generates its gravity or that the bomb's far to small or anything else of the sort, you might as well save your money and stay at home. Because you've missed the point. This is a "wonder tale," not too far afield from the best of, say, Bradbury. Indeed, it's impossible not to think of one of Bradbury's most "outlandish" (and satisfying) tales, "The Golden Apples of the Sun." I found this a beautiful and deeply moving film. Not as good as the remake of Solaris, though it treads much of the same ground, but quite marvelous, nonetheless. The cast is superb. I'm not sure I could point to one particular actor and say she or he was the best of the lot. The visual effects alone are worth the ticket price. When the crew gathers to watch the black silhouette of Mercury crossing the face of the sun, for example. The soundtrack is exquisite. I strongly recommend this film, but only with the caveat stated above, because a lot of what's wrong with contemporary sf is right with Sunshine.

Later, Byron dropped by and stayed until well after midnight.

Now, I need to go see if me and the platypus are still on speaking terms.

Yesterday, I did 1,218 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars and reached the end of the third section, "The Survivor" (note that in my entry of July 5th I mistakenly referred to the second section by this same title, though in fact that section is titled "The Inquest"). So, that's 10,983 words thus far, fifty pages, and I'm guessing a little less than a third of the book. Having reached a natural pause in the story yesterday, I have decided that today I will go ahead and begin work on a new vignette for Sirenia Digest #20. I am hesitant to set TDoM aside even for the space of a few days, now that it's moving along. But the platypus says that's the way the cookie crumbles. So, I will likely spend today and the next two or three days on something brief and weird and quasi-erotic.

Anything else to yesterday? Ah, yes. This is cool. Spooky was out front of the house doing something or another, and she was fortunate enough to spot a specimen of the terrestrial planarian Bipalium kewense (Phylum Platyhelminthes) as it began an attack upon an earthworm (Phylum Annelida). She came back in and got her camera and snapped the following images (behind the cut), which you might want to avoid if the thought of one squirmy thing eating another alive gives you the willies:

( planarian versus earthworm )

This particular Bipalium kewense was, conservatively, 16-17mm in length, though these beasts may grow as large as 120mm. Originally described from specimens recovered from a greenhouse at Kew Botanical Gardens, near London, England, in 1878, this species is prbably native to Indochina, and has been turning up in America since 1901, an exotic invader inadvertently imported by horticulturists. A remarkable little creature.

Last night, we had a good walk through Freedom Park. There were low pinkish clouds, catching the distant rays of sunset. There were two rather enormous bats. Later, we watched The Fifth Element, which I think I'd not seen in a couple of years. I remain immensely fond of this film.

Michael Brampton writes:

Some time ago you talked about the possibility of writing a literary Science Fiction novel revolving around the idea of the human race being offered the ultimatum from an alien race: if they continued to cause the extinction of species upon the plant, they would in turn suffer huge losses. I thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. Do you still plan to write it? I think you mentioned in the journal that you were advised that there is no audience for literary Sci-fi, but you would perhaps write it anyway. I hope so, it sounds like a fantastic plan for a book.

I haven't forgotten the idea, one I'd still very much like to write someday. No time soon, as my next two novels, under contract to Penguin, will be dark fantasy. It's possible I may someday be able to write this particular sf novel for Subterranean Press. On the other hand, I have already told subpress that The Dinosaurs of Mars may be my last sf novel, aside from some steampunk pieces I want to write. So, we'll see.

Yesterday, I did 1,282 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, which brought me to the end of the second section of the story, "The Survivor." I'm actually considering placing a sort of disclaimer at the front of this book, something like this —

WARNING! This is strictly a work of fiction, and therefore should be regarded as fantasy, not an attempt to forecast some possible human future. The events in this novel are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to any actual future is purely coincidental. It was the sole intent of the author to write a story, a "ripping good space yarn," something fun and thoughtful and exciting about highly evolved dinosaurs inhabiting volcanic caverns on Mars — not to play Nostradamus. Take note: the author could not care less about mankind's future. If this is not the sort of book you're looking for, then you should stop NOW while there's still time. No, really. Oh, and all that stuff you've heard about "the Singularity" and ">H," that particular fantasy will not be found anywhere herein. Apologies. — CRK

Or maybe it'll just say something to the effect that I'm intentionally writing a novella that would be perfectly at home in the pages of a mid-20th Century pulp magazine. Let the critics sit and spin and write their own gorramn books. Thank you, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Thank you, Ray Bradbury.

The baby robins in the holly bush below the kitchen window fledged yesterday. There was a bit of a kerfuffle when a male cardinal tried to move in before the last robin chick was out. Spooky snagged a photo (behind the cut):

( peering from the green )

A very good walk through Freedom Park just after nightfall. There were lots of bats. Back home, my Second Life was occupied largely with real-estate speculation in New Babbage, as I'm looking to buy a couple of parcels of land so that I can begin building Hawkins' Palaeozoic Museum. I am envisioning a great glass and steel structure, not unlike the Crystal Palace. The second parcel will, I hope, become Jules Verne Park, because even Babbage needs green space. Sir Arthur and his accountant, Mr. Swindlehurst, showed me some of the ins and outs of owning land in SL. Now, I just have to find the right lots and get my virtual finances in order. Oh, and for them what might care, here's the link to Professor Nareth E. Nishi's journal, the writing of which is becoming another minor obsession of mine.

Late, we watched another episode of Firefly ("Shindig"). Then, of course, it was time for my nightly dance with Monsieur Insomnia. He had me up until about 4:30 a.m. But, in the end, two Ambien (20 mg) bought me six and a half hours sleep. Boy howdy.

Platypus says it's time to go. I am helpless to resist.

I have to admit that I'm kind of excited about a number of upcoming "big budget" sf films, including:

The new version of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend...

...and The Invasion...

...but mostly, I'm thrilled at what I've seen of Danny Boyle's Sunshine.

Meanwhile, before I seek that which is bed, here's a pretty little something:

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Tomorrow, kiddos.

So, I just got news from thingunderthest that LJ is finally going to have another permanent-account sale, beginning on June 21st and lasting for a week. And I must admit, $150 sounds like a good deal for a lifetime account. Which is to say, if the folks who read this blog want to pass around the collection plate, I wouldn't be offended.

Here in the shadows and blinding shafts of light I call home, we are presently "between checks." It's a peculiar state of pseudo-poverty generated by a general slowness on the part of publishers when it comes to actually paying their writers (please note that subpress is exempt from this statement; I'm talking the big NYC houses). So, we reach these interminable stretches of time where oodles of money is due, and/or past due, and I have learned to live in a sort of perpetual "feast or famine" cycle. When there's money, there's money. When there isn't, well, there is the promise of money to string me along. It's kind of like life on the savannas of Africa, what with the very dry and the very wet.

Meanwhile, yesterday, I tried to get back to work on The Dinosaurs of Mars. I returned to the "editor's preface." I even added a little to it. But it still doesn't work for me. I continue to be dogged by self doubt and questions of language in the mid 22nd Century. Always am I plagued by self doubt, but here it is actually preventing me from proceeding with the story. I didn't have this problem with The Dry Salvages or "Bradbury Weather" or "Riding the White Bull," but all that was before the Locus review's comment about my "facile use of shorthand TV-series lingo." Honestly, I'm not even sure what that means. And right now, I don't care anymore. I just want to tell this story. I am not a linguist, and even the best linguist would be hard-pressed to forecast the evolution of the English language over the next 141 years. I should simply put that review out of my mind and write the story and stop obsessing over the voices in which it will be told. I know that's what I should do. It occurs to me that there are people out there who take science fiction far too seriously, in that they forget that it is fiction and that there is no looking glass through which we may catch glimpses of the shape of things to come. Well, other than the predictive abilities of science, but that's another matter. The yardstick by which we measure the success of fiction is story and character and syntax, not predictive success. There's a quote from William Gibson that I would bring up here:

When you write a science-fiction novel set in some sort of recognizable future, as soon as you finish it you have the dubious pleasure of watching it acquire a patina of quaint technological obsolescence. For instance, there are no cell phones in Neuromancer. I couldn't have foreseen them. It would have seemed corny, like Dick Tracy wrist radios.

And Mr. Gibson is a much, much brighter fellow than I am. Well, actually, I don't suppose I'm any sort of a fellow, but you know what I mean. Unless you don't.

Not much else to say about yesterday. Byron dropped by at 7 p.m., and we had a very enjoyable dinner at The Vortex. Thank you, Byron. Sometimes, I think he should just marry me and Spooky and be done with it. Make honest, respectable women of us. Anyway, later there was Second Life...speaking of the future. My flat in Babbage is pretty much decorated and furnished. Soon, I must turn my thoughts to a public exhibition, as one thing Babbage is lacking is a NeoVictorian-Era geological museum. Sir Arthur says Salazar will be around this week to fix the lift, and I think I'm getting new windows, as well. Maybe a shiny new jet pack or a steam-powered Victrola would lift my spirits.

Yesterday, I got word via Ellen Datlow that "Bainbridge," the closing story in Alabaster, has been nominated for an International Horror Guild award, in the category of Best Mid-Length Fiction, which happens to be the same category "La Peau Verte" won in 2006. So, that was a good way to begin a Friday. If you wish to see a complete list of this year's IHG nominees, just follow this link.

Somehow, I missed the fact that there was a pretty good review of The Dry Salvages (written by Bill Sheehan) published in The Washington Post way back in December 2004. I have no idea how I missed it. These things happen, I suppose.

Yesterday earned a W in the day planner, but I almost feel as though it should have earned a D, for dithering. I looked back at the "editor's preface" for The Dinosaurs of Mars I wrote on Thursday and found it wanting. But I also didn't quite see how to fix it. So, I fucked off to Emory for a bit, because I needed to track down a number of books on speleology and caving and karst topography, and since I need these references for The Dinosaurs of Mars, it was easy to justify the library trip as "work." My thanks to everyone who commented yesterday. There were some especially helpful remarks and suggestions from stsisyphus and corucia, which have actually had some impact on how the book will be written. Feedback can be very useful. Oh, and this question from jtglover:

In re: Dinosaurs, I can't remember if you've said, but will this be Mars á la Bradbury or Burroughs? Something else? Not trying to snoop too much, just curious.

Though the subject of Burrough's Barsoom may come up somewhere in the book, this particular Mars won't seem much like Barsoom or Bradbury's haunted red planet. It's not even going to be the colonized Mars I wrote of in "Bradbury Weather." This will be a very naturalistic Mars, Mars as early Martian explorers will likely find it — cold, hostile, barren, deadly, beautiful, and filled with secrets.

And this comment from stsisyphus, which I found particularly salient:

What I mean to say here is that I think that it doesn't make sense in comparison to her other works to construct a scientific artifice simply to justify how or why the characters managed to trod the Martian soil. The point isn't to demonstrate how it could be that a human could be exploring caverns of Mars, but rather what happens to them once they are there. I don't need to have a long infodump of exposition explaining the bioengineering of "Faces in Revolving Souls" and "A Season of Broken Dolls" to enjoy the stories. In fact, it would been distracting.

A great deal of Ms. Kiernan's fiction has dealt with the effect of otherness upon a humanity which is mostly organic in nature and composition. These are characters that cry, pump blood, puke bile, and occasionally piss themselves (probably one of my favorite details of the kill scenes in tFoC). Kiernan doesn't shy away from making her characters palpable and sensually whole. Her androids, monsters, and such have on the whole been deceptively humanish. Admittedly, there are a handful of stories that have been in Sirenia Digest & Frog Toes & Tentacles which ran counter to this. Even then, however, there is often an organic logic to many of Kiernan's "alien antagonists." While they may not be human in form or consciousness, they are often project the efficient cruelty and instinct of nature. While one could portray the explicit subversion/destruction of rational, technological mastery by nature-chaos or ex-conscious forces - I don't know if it would normally be a CRK kind of story.

There will be many unanswered questions in The Dinosaurs of Mars, and a lot of them will present themselves at the opening of the story. For example, I am intentionally constructing the book in such a way that the reader never learns much at all about Babette Flanagan's trip from the Earth to the moon to Mars or the technology that makes this trip possible. I do have a lot of ideas about that tech. For example, I've been thinking about the Variable Specific Impulse Magnetoplasma Rocket (VASIMR), utilizing ion cyclotron resonance heating, which NASA first started talking about back in 2000, as a means of paring an Earth-to-Mars travel time down to only four months or so. Of course, I could just cut to the ch