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,

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

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

So, yeah, there you go.

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

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

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

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

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

Yesterday, I wrote 1,154 words of The Dinosaurs of Mars, beginning Section Five, "The Big Grim." I still have no title for Section Four. About halfway through the writing yesterday, I read "Themis characterization of the MER Gusev crater landing site" (Milam, K. A., et al. 2003. Journal of Geophysical Research), because I needed to know the approximate level of Zutphen Crater below datum. The story, and the characters, inch their way towards whatever secrets are hidden beneath Apollinaris Patera. At least I finally got them out of Kayne City. Going back to the novella today, I have absolutely no idea whatsoever what happens next. I assume the story will let me know.

And we were up much too late last night reading You Know What, so I can't even blame insomnia for my grogginess.

Just a little more than one day left on two of the current auctions. Have a look, please and thank you.

I think that's all I have this afternoon. It's time for coffee. Because the platypus is a merciful monotreme, or so I am told.

So, Spooky — or rather her avatar, Artemisia Paine — was given the task of finding the internet radio station we would stream into the Palaeozoic Musuem on Second Life. And she found a gem: Mixing of Particulate Solids Radio, out of Bratislava, Slovakia. Have a listen. Experimental, ambient, electronica, etc. The other night, working in the Museum, I was able to listen to all of Henryk Górecki's Symphony 3, Symfonia pieśni żałosnych. Now I've started streaming the station through Arwen (the iMac) while I write, and I think Moya (the iPod) feels neglected.

The weather has turned mercifully cool here in Atlanta. Right now, it's cloudy and 73F outside. Of course, the humidity is 76%, and feel as though I have one big hair, but after all the sun and heat, it's a still a relief.

Yesterday, I wrote 893 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars. Turns out, what I wrote on Friday was not actually the end of Section 4. I found that yesterday. Though I still have no title for the section.

My thanks to everyone who has bid in the latest round of eBay auctions. Two of them, From Weird and Distant Shores and Daughter of Hounds, end on the 24th, so take note. Along with Sirenia Digest, eBay helps to fill in the leanish times between checks.

Last night, we actually managed to finish The Vile Village and then begin Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. At about 3:30 a.m., Spooky declared it was time to sleep, so we only made it two chapters in, but still. Actually, I want this book to last at least a week. This is the end, and I think endings should be savoured. Oh, and I finished Chapter Four of Chris Beard's book, which was mostly about the anthropoids and paleoecology of the Oligocene Fayum deposits of Egypt. Lots of reading yesterday. And I don't care if the (nameless) television feels neglected. We did squeeze in about an hour of freeform rping on Second Life. I haven't been doing much of that, and Nareth E. Nishi's story had sort of stalled out on me. But now the game is afoot once more. With dragons.

I was just about to entitle this entry "The Wait is Not Over," but then the postman showed up with Spooky's copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. And it's a good damn thing, because she hardly slept last night. Now I think she's walking about the house hugging the box, which is marked "Do Not Deliver Until July 21, 2007." I've heard tell there was some eldritch bargain struck between booksellers and postal workers to keep the books from arriving early. I half expected the bloody thing to come by owl. But it is here, finally, and as soon as we finish Lemony Snicket's The Vile Village, we may begin reading it. This is called delayed gratification. It works for me.

Yesterday, I did 1,196 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, and finished section four, which does not yet have a title. But after much confusion and vain attempts at plotting, I finally understand the essential nature of this story. Like "Bradbury Weather," "Zero Summer," "A Season of Broken Dolls," "In View of Nothing," and "Riding the White Bull" before it, The Dinosaurs of Mars is basically sf noir. I wanted it to be something else, something more akin to The Dry Salvages, but the story gets its way. The story always gets its way, unless I am the worst sort of liar. All writers are liars, but we must always tell the truth. When our lies begin to force stories into places they were not "meant" to go (teleology here is illusory), then we have begun to taint our lies with that which is untruthful. Still, I hope it will be a "ripping good space yarn." I start to suspect its plot is going the way of The Big Sleep. But there you go. Storytelling is a wild magic, and it does as it will.

A typical summer's day here in Georgia. The sun's a demon, and the birds have stopped singing. There's only the rise and fall of the cicadas to break the still.

Please have a look at the latest round of eBay auctions. That copy of From Weird and Distant Shores is one of my last, and I only have a few copies of Daughter of Hounds. And since I have publishers who seem to pay me only when the whimsical mood strikes them (except for Subterranean Press, who understand that writers have bills, too, just like real people), the eBay money is especially welcome right now.

I thought last night's episode of Dr. Who, "Gridlock," was particularly good. In fact, I loved it. Even without Christopher Eccelston, it might be my favourite episode so far. I suppose it just happened to hit all my buttons. But earlier, before Dr. Who, Spooky got us pizza from Fellini's and we had a twilight walk down Sinclair Avenue to see the dinosaur and Daisy Dog. Two perfectly adorable Hogwart's students went traipsing past, waving their wands in the air. I kind of suspect they were Hufflepuffs. Spooky and I are both Ravenclaw, of course. Later still, there was Second Life. The Palaeozoic Museum is actually beginning to feel like a museum, instead of just a great beautiful, empty building. I added code to some of the Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins murals to make them interactive, then we planted a "Cretaceous Garden," which includes ferns, a dogwood tree, and a eucalyptus. It's standing where, one day, our models of Hawkins' Lælaps and Hadrosaurus will stand. By one a.m., I was too bleary for SL, and we went to bed and read The Vile Village. I think we're halfway through. And the platypus says I've "prattled on" quite enough for one morning, so later, kiddos. There's coffee with my name on it.

Spooky is all a twitter this afternoon, because our copy of the last Harry Potter book is set to arrive sometime today. She keeps checking the tracking number on the UPS website (or something). The coming of Potter the Last is slightly problematic, as we began a new Lemony Snicket last night, The Vile Village. Likely, it will be set aside, poor Baudelaires. And it was no end of reassuring, just now, to "google" the name Baudelaire and see all the top hits come up for Charles, not Violet, Klaus, or Sunny.

Yesterday was the slow sort of writing day. I did 526 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, getting myself back into the story after a ten-day absence during which other things were written and attended to. And much of my afternoon was spent researching the geology of the southern part of Elysium Planitia, and the area just south of Apollinaris Patera. I will not say it was a bad writing day, as low word counts do not equal bad writing days. Bad writing days are days when you mean to write and can't, or are interrupted so frequently that nothing gets done. I'm disheartened at how often I see the blogs of aspiring writers bemoaning how slowly a book or story is coming along. They have somehow gotten it in their heads that writing is a thing done quickly, efficiently, like an assembly line with lots of shiny robotic workers. The truth, of course, is that writing is usually slow, and inefficient, and more like trying to find a cube of brown Jello that someone's carelessly dropped into a pig sty. Five hundred words in a day is good. So is a thousand. Or fifteen hundred. A good writing day is a day when one has written well, and the word counts be damned. Finishing is not the goal. Doing the job well is the goal. And I say that as someone with no means of financial support but her writing, as someone who is woefully underpaid for her writing, and as someone with so many deadlines breathing down her neck that she can no longer tell one breather from the other. Sometimes, I forget this, that daily word counts are irrelevant, that writing is not a race to the finish line. One need only write well if one wishes to be a writer. A day when one does not do her best merely so that more may be written, that's a bad writing day.

Oh, and my thanks to Anne Sowards, my editor at Penguin, for sending me the cover for the new edition of Murder of Angels, due out next April (behind the cut, unless you're reading this via MySpace):

( Niki, many years later )

I've reached that stage in the cycling of my insomnia where I'm actually sleeping (at least eight hours last night), but not until late (after 3 a.m.), and then I find it impossible to wake up and spend the day in a haze. Not as bad as dreamsickness, but aggravating. My grogginess laughs at coffee beans and Red Bull.

Maybe it's time the platypus gave me a good shot of adrenaline, straight to the heart...

Postscript (1:43 p.m.): I just ran across a new interview with William Gibson at (sigh) Amazon.com, and I feel the need to post this excerpt, regarding book proposals and not knowing the end of a story when one begins writing it. I feel not so alone now. Anyway, it's behind the cut:

( William Gibson )

No writing yesterday. The whole day was spent putting together a new draft of the manuscript for Tales of Pain and Wonder, salvaging a new "typescript" from the old MS Word file that was the basis of the Meisha Merlin Pub. edition. Hopefully, today I will be spent getting back into The Dinosaurs of Mars.

I think I would be somewhat more disposed to look kindly upon the whole "rapture of the nerds" Singularity silliness if I could just find a reliable printer. I sat nursing this one all damn day, printing in 30-page increments lest it became overwhelmed, feeding it paper, extracting jammed sheets of paper, etc. & etc. And it's not like it's some knock-off piece of dren machine. It's a new Hewlett-Packard, still shiny from the box. Oh, how I miss my old Mac LaserWriter 300. What a marvelous machine that was. Never jammed or broke down, and an ink cartridge lasted almost forever. Alas, Apple got out of the printer business, and I had to stop using the LaserWriter when I moved from the venerable Color Classic to the iBook in 2001 (though the printer was still in tip-top fucking shape, mind you, even though it was eight years old at the time). But, yeah, me and this idiot excuse for a printer until about 8:15 p.m. last night, and now I have a 441-page "typescript" that has to be edited, and it doesn't even include the new and as yet unwritten story or the new intro.

My writing schedule has become a nightmare. Again, even with Beowulf out of the way. Somehow, I have to finish Dinosaurs of Mars (only one-third written), keep the digest going, edit this new edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, go over the Silk mmp page proofs, write the new S. Desvernine short story, and get Joey LaFaye started (because it's due in April 2008, and I need at least nine months to write it). All between now and the end of August. I only need one more me, and co-consciousness, so the two Caitlíns do not have to waste time with verbal communication. There are writers who could do this in their sleep, I'm sure. But I'm slow, and rarely good for more than 1,200 words a day. And I have one functional eye. And chronic insomnia that leads to periods of uselessness. And yet, it will all get done, because it always all gets done. I can seek solace in the fact that no matter how awful my schedule might look right now, this isn't anywhere as terrible as the Bad Old Days when I was writing for Vertigo.

Howard Hughes must love her work, on some level, as it's surely not making her rich or healthy.

Spooky made a grand stir fry last night, lots of asparagus and red bell pepper and fresh basil and shitake on jasmine rice. Then there was a thunderstorm that delayed our walk until well after sunset. But Freedom Park was full of bats, swooping and flapping and chittering. We could still glimpse the thunderhead to the east, glowing with lightning. There was a little Second Life, and we are so very near to being finished with the great steel and glass structure that will house the Palaeozoic Museum. You can see some in-progress photos here, thanks to blu_muse (in some of the shots, you can even see me, the grey-skinned, red-haired Victorian hovering in the sky). If I do say so myself, snapshots cannot do the space justice. You have to "stand" inside it, inside the 25-meter-high atrirum. My inspiration was, obviously, taken from the Crystal Palace from the Great Exhibition of 1851. Before sleep, Spooky read aloud the next chapter of The Ersatz Elevator.

Do please have a look at the new eBay auctions, if you have not already. Or look again. Note that I have only a very few copies of Daughter of Hounds on hand, and as I foresee no signings or con appearances in my immediate future (who has time or money for that shit?), this will be one of your only chances to get a signed, personalized copy.

Where's my brain, please...?

So, yes. Today I can make the Second Big Announcement (you will recall Beowulf was the first). In the spring of 2008, Subterranean Press will release the 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, as trade and limited hardbacks. I am more excited about this than I have been about any project in quite some while. The book will include all the stories, etc. from the Gauntlet (1999) and Meisha Merlin (2002) editions, plus a new story and a new author's introduction. All Richard Kirk's interior illustrations will be reprinted, and my great thanks to Rick for tracking down good scans these thirteen images, as he long ago sold the original artwork to collectors. There will be a new cover (artist to be announced). It is my intention that this will be, at last, the true definitive edition of the text, and all the horrid errors that somehow crept into the Meisha Merlin edition (despite my painstaking copyediting) will be excised.

That said, many will be asking what then is to become of my plans for a free electronic edition of the book? In short, those plans have been shelved, at least for the life of the subpress edition. In the meanwhile, I will be releasing a free electronic edition of The Dry Salvages instead, under a Creative Commons license. Regardless, my thanks to everyone who volunteered, months ago, to do the annotations for an e-version of Tales of Pain and Wonder.

Yesterday almost felt like a "normal" day. The Beowulf page proofs went back in the mail to HarperCollins (well, back in the UPS). I tried to write, and spent most of the day trying to write, but in the end scrapped everything I'd done. Sometimes that happens. I spoke with my lit agent about contracts, as we have contracts in the works for my next two novels with Penguin, the new edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, and The Dinosaurs of Mars. We had a very good walk at sunset. The sky was filled with swallows, and when we reached Inman Park, Spooky spotted the slimmest silver-grey rind of the waxing moon, just visible in the western sky. Back home, I read more of Chris Beard's book on early primates. I napped and bathed. Later, we spent two or three hours in Second Life, erecting the glass and steel walls of the Palaeozoic Museum's atrium in New Babbage. I'll post some images here soon. It is going to be amazing. blu_muse ("Cerdwin Flanagan") dropped in while we were building, and much virtual silliness ensued. Later still, I crawled away to bed, and Spooky read me Chapter Seven of The Ersatz Elevator by Lemony Snicket, which we have long neglected (bad kids). So, yes, a "normal" day. And I even got a good night's sleep.

Spooky just returned from the p.o., and the platypus is chomping at the bit. So I will wrap this up. Oh, my thanks to everyone who bid and bought in the latest round of eBay auctions. Okay. Onward, platypus.

Postscript (3:50 p.m.): Spooky's trying to get back into the eBay habit, as the boxes of my books are beginning to take over the house (and the money's always nice). She had relisted The Five of Cups (trade hardcover, PC), along with one of my last five copies of From Weird and Distant Shores (trade hardcover, PC) and a copy of Daughter of Hounds. Regarding the latter, I have only a very few of these to sell, so there is no "buy it now" feature. All books can be signed and personalised at the buyer's request. Just click here for auctions! Thanks.

It's Sunday morning, and once again the Xtians are wailing "gospel" through loudspeakers. All the dogs on the street have started to howl. I shit you not.

Yesterday, we read back over "In the Dreamtime of Lady Resurrection" and the first fifty pages of The Dinosaurs of Mars, two very different beasts. Afterwards, I did some polishing on the former, and I think it still needs just a little more, but I went ahead and emailed it to Vince for illustrating. I also attended to some neglected email. I'm not exactly sure what's going to happen today. More of the same, whichever way it goes.

Later, I had a New Babbage town meeting to attend in Second Life, followed by a virtual vaudeville show in the New Babbage stockyards. The trained humans were quite good, and the dancing hippo amused me, as well. Then we installed the spiral staircase in the Palaeozoic Museum and worked some on the mezzanine. And that was my yesterday, near as I can recall.

I get into terrible, senseless funks over hardly ever leaving the house, much less the neighborhood. And then I stop and consider my options, which is to say — my options without burning the hydrocarbons needed to drive a day and a half northeast or several days west, and the funk dissolves into simple despair. And that's somehow better, really.

My life seems less and less part of some objective reality, and more and more like a peculiar tributary in some unfortunate dream. Well, perhaps not unfortunate. Perhaps merely ill considered.

Time to make the doughnuts.

Yesterday was the sort of writing day that would make me love my vocation, if only every writing day were like yesterday. But in truth, yesterday was the rarest sort of writing day. One in which I allowed myself to disregard the shoddy artifices of story and plot. One in which I let myself wander freely in mood and language, image and theme. The simple poetry of prose, which is really what I got into this whole writing thing for to begin with. The Dinosaurs of Mars seems just the opposite, almost all story and plot (and characterization), so it was a relief to cut myself free for a few days. I did 1,054 words yesterday on a piece titled "In the Dreamtime of Lady Resurrection" for Sirenia Digest #20. Despite my last entry, there are actual numerous sources of inspiration. Which is to say, any time I give you a simple answer, call me on it. It would be more accurate to say that the System of a Down video was the initial impetus for the piece. Much of yesterday was spent re-reading bits of Frankenstein, Paracelsus, Ernst Haeckel, Charles Wyville Thomson, Thomas Huxley, Cornelius Agrippa, and Coleridge, all of which may fairly be cited as inspirations for what was written yesterday and what will be written today. Oh, and Garbage, too. Also, yesterday was the first time in months, I think, that I allowed myself to use absinthe while writing, and that likely shows, as well.

Congratulations to occasional Sirenia Digest contributer and collaborator Sonya Taaffe (sovay). Her story "The Depth Oracle," originally published in the "pages" of the digest, was reprinted in Best New Romantic Fantasy 2 and singled out by Publisher's Weekly as one of the anthology's "standouts," described as "hypnotic."

The insomnia was only moderate this ayem. I slept about six hours.

A good walk last night. The sun was down, and the day's heat was draining away. Cats, fireflies, bats, lightning bugs, the gentle noise of cicadas and crickets and katydids. A few bright stars and planets visible above the city lights.

I forgot to mention that we finally were able to get started on the latest season of Dr. Who Friday night. I wasn't very impressed with "The Runaway Bride," which I thought sort of squandered the opportunity of a longer episode. But I was very pleased with "Smith and Jones" and entirely approve of the new companion.

Last night, I took a big step in Second Life and finally purchased 1,472 sq. meters of land in New Babbage, on which I shall build my steampunk version of Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkin's Palaeozoic Museum. My lot is next to the Undershaw, just across from the Town Hall. Thank you, Mayor Sprocket. And the land only cost me $12,228. That is, in Lindens, not US dollars, and since the exchange rate is currently 186 Lindens to the dollar, well, there you go. Regardless, I'm beginning three auctions today, to help offset the expense of my ridiculous obsession. Spooky has just put three items up on eBay: an ARC of the Subterranean Press edition of Low Red Moon; a copy of The Five of Cups (hardcover trade edition); and a copy of the Italian-language edition of Threshold (La Soglia). You may see all three auctions here. All books come signed and can be personalised at the buyer's request. Now, I just have to actually build the museum and the exhibits...

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.

In the near distance, audible even through these thick plaster walls, some goddamn idiot is wailing "gospel" at the upper limits of human vocalization, and, near as I can conjure, the sound is being greatly amplified by some infernal electronical device. Ugh. It's Sunday morning. Must I have Xtianity foisted upon me even on Sunday morning? In the form of sound pollution? I assure you, this is not what Mr. Tesla had in mind. It's been going on for the better part of an hour. Fortunately, I have driven my ear buds in deep and turned the volume up loudly enough that no trace of the caterwauling is getting through. Better deaf than annoyed, I say. Deaf women do not have to hear wailing Xtians on Sunday morning. You don't get this sort of racket from the Hare Krishnas and Buddhists.

The last three days have been sort of a mess, and I thought it best just to stay clear of LJ until the clouds had moved along. Well, actually yesterday was okay. It was Thursday and Friday that deserve most of the blame. Especially Friday. Friday was the very first day to earn an L in my day planner since May 18th. The worst of it has been the insomnia, and the bad dreams, but at least the former finally seems to be releasing me. I got eight hours sleep last night, and seven the night before. I'm weaning myself off the zolpidem tartrate.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,413 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, making it my most prolific day thus far on this book (which I still hope to finish by the end of July). The story keeps surprising me, and that's one of the only reasons I write, for the surprises, the tales I can only hear if I tell them. In this respect, it's going well.

In two or three days, though, I'll need to set TDoM aside and write a couple of pieces for Sirenia Digest #20. I have at least one good vignette taking shape inside my head; I'm sure a second will make itself known to me almost anytime now.

But I am having to face up to an inconvenient and annoying truth — I have allowed myself to become overextended. There is far too much on my plate. And virtually nothing that I can take off. Not if I wish to keep the bills paid. Not if I wish to make use of the opportunities presented to me. The best solution I have been able to arrive at is that I will take on no new projects — not even a short-story commission — until at least October. As Neil says, the power of No. A considerable portion of the insomnia has resulted from my incessant worrying about how I'm to actually meet all these deadlines and do so having written stories that I'm happy with. It is not enough to write prolifically. I must write well prolifically. I must not begin to compromise quality for quantity.

And I must get more exercise.

Take a good multi-vitamin and detox regularly.

Eat better, spend less time online, read more, hug the cat, leave the house at least once a day.

It's all very simple, really.

One day this week, and I suspect early this week, I will have an announcement which I will be pleased to make. As soon as all the t's are crossed and all the i's dotted. Even though it means more work. But there you go. I am a slave to my goddamned aspirations. And my intentions, both good and bad. Anyway, the platypus says the next bus for Mars leaves in fifteen minutes, and if I'm not on it, my ass is in for that fabled "world of hurt," so I suppose I should wrap this up. Later, kiddos.

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.

Seven hours sleep last night, so I can thank the Ambien for that. But, on the other hand, it seems to have ceased to ease my transition from the dreams to wakefulness and seems, also, to no longer be helping me to quickly forget the dreams. So, this morning, which is actually fucking afternoon already, I am dreamsick and angry and disoriented.

Only 505 words written on The Dinosaurs of Mars yesterday. But I needed time to think. Sometimes writers have to do that. It's not all word counts and crumpets, you know. There's little or nothing else to say for yesterday. It came and went, as days do. I have one bit of news, one bit I'm pleased with, but I can't make that announcement just yet. Maybe by Monday. A decent enough walk late yesterday. The sky was full of swallows. Later on, another episode of Deadwood. But that's about it.

Last March 28th, my lit agent, Merrilee, called to ask if I wanted to do a novelization. In particular, would I want to do a novelization of the forthcoming Robert Zemeckis Beowulf. All I knew of the film was that Roger Avary and Neil Gaiman had written the screenplay. And, truthfully, I've never had any interest in writing a novelization. But the timing was right, and, as Neil and Merrilee knew, I'm something of a fanatic on the subject of Beowulf. Indeed, many years ago (I think it was sometime in 1997), Neil and I had a phone conversation about what we'd each do if either of us ever got the opportunity to write a screenplay for Beowulf. Anyway, I said yes, though, for one reason and another (and a few others after that), I was not actually able to begin work on the book until October. I finished the "first draft" back in February, and then had to do two rounds of rewrites for Paramount and my editor at HarperCollins. This morning, the first-pass page proofs landed on my front porch. I'd have announced this long, long ago, but was only told yesterday that I could finally do so (though, I will point out, Neil leaked the news quite some time back, and its turned up in a couple of Wikipedia articles). So, that's what I spent the winter on, and much of the autumn and spring. On Friday, I got the very good news that Paramount had given my manuscript (based on Neil and Roger's screenplay) the green light. I believe the novel is due out in October. There are some differences between it and the film, mostly my inclusion of a great deal more Norse mythology and suchlike, because that's the sort of thing that there's more time for in a novel than a film. I presently have no interest in doing another novelization. I think this was probably a one-time thing, a special case, but it has been a learning experience. I'm not sure when the film is due to be released. Ah, wait. IMDb says November 16th, 2007. It's an animated film, by the way.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,270 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars. But I stopped at 574 words, because an inquest was coming up, and I needed to read Ambrose Bierce's "The Damned Thing" again to be sure I didn't borrow too heavily from it. There's not much else to say about yesterday. Spooky's iPod arrived, and she named it Shiny!, as we having been working our way through Firefly again. Late, we watched Bram Stoker's Dracula, because I'd not seen it in a couple of years and had that urge. The day was cool and rainy, as today appears to be, a welcomed relief from the summer heat.

Oh, and I was very pleased to see that Farscape landed at #4 on TV Guide's list of the 30 "Top Cult TV Shows Ever."

And today is mine and Spooky's fifth anniversary. Yes, we are five, or, as she said, "a whole hand."

Okay. The platypus is getting out the bull whip. Later, kiddos.

Monsieur Insomnia gave me a thorough thrashing last night, so today I am somewhat less than together and articulate. At 4 a.m., I finally took an Ambien. At 5 a.m., unphased, I took a second Ambien, and that finally put me to sleep, but I was awake again at (or about) 10:30, so, at best five and a half hours sleep. Fortunately, I had already planned for today to be a day off, which somewhat minimizes the damage done.

And yet, as it turns out, yesterday was a peculiarly good day. I never see those coming, and always they blindside me. There were two very welcome bits of writing-related news, which, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to divulge until next week (or so). Also, I wrote a very respectable 1,339 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars and finished the first section of the novella (which comes to about one-sixth its total length). It is going well, at last. I'll pick it up again on Sunday. I've not had a true day off since the 16th, which is what, thirteen days straight, which is quite enough in a row, thank you.

Last night's Kindernacht film was Mark Steven Johnson's Ghost Rider (2007), which was really pretty awful. With a different director and a different screenplay, there might have been something here worth seeing. It might have been fun. As it stands, the film never quite manages to find itself, and one is left with the distinct impression the target audience was, in fact, twelve-year-old redneck boys. Following the movie, we had an after-dark walk, and it was sprinkling, a cool, gentle rain, and there was distant lightning. Perfect.

After the walk we both had some very excellent Second Life, which included forty minutes at Brian Eno's "77 Million Paintings" exhibition/concert in Avignon at Art Center. The exhibition is also running at Ars Virtua in Seventh Eye, and will be ongoing all day today at both locations. This is a sterling example of what's right about SL, the wondrous things SL can be if allowed and if the brightest, most creative minds are not driven away by the negatives. And the whole experience is free. Not a single Linden is being asked of attendees. I also had a meeting last night with Sir Arthur in Babbage, and we figured out where the modest Phase I of the Palaeozoic Museum would be situated (downstairs at the Undershaw Society). I'll likely spend a good deal of my "day off" working on those exhibits. And again, at no point will the Palaeozoic Museum charge its visitors, though donations will be accepted. Anyway, yes, a very good day, and it's quite nice to go to bed not feeling as though the world has trampled upon you...even if Monsieur Insomnia then shows up to ruin your sleep.

Is that all for now? Yes, I think it is.

This will be the disorganized sort of entry.

They happen, sometimes.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,197 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars.

It wasn't a bad day, all in all. Just after dark, as we were getting ready to walk, thunderstorms rolled in, and it rained until after midnight, I think. Which was nice, even if we didn't get our walk. What's a little muscle atrophy in the age of automation? I lay on the sofa listening to the rain, smelling it through an open window, talking with Spooky. Nothing on earth is as comforting as the sound of a steady summer rain. All day, the cicadas screamed in the trees, the only creatures that seem to thrive in the heat. The birds are mostly silent throughout the day, emerging at sunset. I don't think I left the house yesterday. No, I didn't. I try not to let that happen these days.

Last night, there was more "comfort TV," first the second episode of Deadwood ("Deep Water") and more Firefly ("Serenity," parts 1 & 2). Earlier, I finally finished Jay Parini's John Steinbeck: A Life, which left me sort of sad and in ill-spirits. I recall, at some point, Poppy (docbrite) saying to me how the thing she hated about biographies was that they almost all ended the same way, with the main character's death. I kept hoping this book would end before that, but no one will be spared, no one will be spared. No more bios for a while. Instead, I shall move along to The Hunt for the Dawn Monkey: Unearthing the Origins of Monkeys, Apes, and Humans (2004) by Chris Beard. It was a birthday gift from a reader, but I'll be frelled if I can recall from just who. Whoever you were, thanks, because fossil prosimians make me happy.

Regarding Sirenia Digest, yesterday stsisyphus had this to say about #19:

BTB, my jaw nearly hit the floor when I saw this issue alone was 42 freaking pages (give or take) of either exclusive or hard-to-find content. You don't need poison spurs to convince people that's a good deal.

I'm just trying to take care of my subscribers, whom I really do cherish. And my thanks to the newest subscriber, alvyarin, who signed up just this morning.

Also, my thanks to Scott Connors and Ron Hilger for sending me The End of the Story: The Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, Volume I, which reached me yesterday. Another beautiful volume from Night Shade Books.

Right. Time to wrap this up. Mars awaits...

Another eight hours this morning. I think my body has finally rebelled against my mind and is forcing sleep upon me. If that is the case, I am grateful to this body (and rarely have I ever voiced that sentiment). Now, if I could just find the wake-up switch.

Yesterday, I wrote a very respectable 1,304 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars. And pondered exactly what would (in detail) happen to the human body if suddenly exposed to Mars' mean surface-level atmospheric pressure of only 600 Pa, or less than 1% of Earth's.

We waited until well after dark to take our walk, and so missed the worst of the heat. The moon was wonderfully bright. Afterwards, we indulged in the pleasant familiarity of Firefly and Deadwood. Two eps of the former ("Our Mrs. Reynolds" and "Trash") and one of the latter ("Deadwood").

I spent a couple of very frustrating hours in Second Life. It pains me to see the waste of so much creative potential. It galls me to encounter dozens and dozens and dozens of beautiful, ingeniously constructed worlds that are little more than "ghost towns." I begin to suspect that Second Life is one of those things that humanity is simply not yet, in general, ready for, and maybe it never will be.

Good and welcomed comments to yesterday's entry, regarding Sirenia Digest #19 and other things, so thanks for that. More today would not be so bad. Talking with phosphor voices helps get me from one end of the day to the other.

I am enjoying the new Rasputina album, Oh Perilous World. I think this might possibly be the best yet, overall. And here I think I've run out of blog entry for now. The platypus says that's just as well.

Last night I slept a somewhat remarkable eight and a half hours. That seems like all the sleep in the whole goddamned world.

I'm not sure I actually have enough to say today to fashion a decent blog entry. Yesterday, I wrote 1,086 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars.

Any thoughts on Sirenia Digest #19? I don't bite. Okay, that's a lie. I most certainly do bite. But I don't tend to bite here.

Yesterday evening is sort of a blur. After dinner, I had a hot bath, which was really too hot given the weather, and then we walked before the sun was quite down, and that was sort of miserable. We didn't even see any bats, just swallows, and a ligtning bug (only one), and a dragonfly. Later, we watched Werner Herzog's Cobra Verde (1987), which was Klaus Kinki's last film with Herzog, and one of Kinski's last films. I'd been wanting to see it for some time. There was a little Second Life after that, but hardly anything worth noting. Oh, while Spooky was fixing dinner, we lamented the death of letter writing, and I pondered exactly how future biographers would go about writing the biographies of authors without letters. It's not like email and "chat" and whatnot will fill the void. Online journals help a little, but they are not, generally, the truly honest sorts of things that letters were, and only a few authors keep them. I tried for years to keep up letter writing, but was defeated in the end by too many unreliable correspondents. And there are baby robins beneath our kitchen window

And really, I think that's all I have for now.

As is the case with most of the southeast at the moment, it's very hot here in Atlanta. Not as bad today as yesterday, when we got very near 100F. So we spent the day indoors, quietly celebrating Spooky's birthday. I only went out for about twenty minutes, just after sunset, but even that late it was still too hot to sit on the porch. There were strawberry cupcakes with vanilla frosting, and for dinner we had a very fine roast chicken, good bread, and an exquisite bottle of Armenian pomegranate wine.

After that, Byron came over with a PC we're trying to hook up to get Spooky on Second Life, so that we can both be inworld at the same time. The two of them worked at getting the Windows box up and running for about two hours. Me, I stayed out of the way, because this nixar knows when she's out of her element. In the end, there was some problem with the router, which Byron is trying to sort out today. Late last night, we watched another ep of Firefly, "The Train Job."

My thanks to Gordon Duke (thingunderthest) for his incredibly generous gift of an LJ permanent account. I suppose this means I just got a life sentence, eh? It's kind of weird, to think I might be sitting here (or somewhere else), still keeping this blog, ten years hence. Also, my thanks to everyone who offered help snagging the Blade Runner: The Final Cut .flv file. I have it now. Frankly, I can't see why Warner's being such an ass about this. Free publicity and all.

I did write on Saturday, better than a thousand words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, but mostly it was a sort of practice run, as I tore the story apart yet again and began putting it together a different way. I just have to find the right way in. The door with the tiger behind it, so to speak. I'm trying not to rush myself, because I need to do this one properly. But, at the same time, the clock is ticking. Oh, for the luxury of a clockless life. The luxury of writing books on no one's timetable but my own. That time is long gone, unless there's a bestseller somewhere in my future, and I doubt that in the worst way. Yesterday, I wrote the prolegomena from Sirenia Digest #19, which should go out to subscribers this afternoon or evening. I am very pleased with "The Steam Dancer," and with Vince's illustration for it.

I would like to point out that Amazon.com is now taking pre-orders for the mass-market paperback of Low Red Moon. Naturally, lots of pre-orders will make my publisher happy, and it's always good to have your publisher happy. Note that you can buy it with Daughter of Hounds for a mere $19.19. The book with be released on August 7, 2007.

Things are going well in Second Life. I believe Nareth Nishi is transitioning from a period of exploration to a period of focused creativity. In Bababge, I have been offered the opportunity to work towards a virtual construction of Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins' never-realised Palaeozoic Museum (I wrote that wiki article, by the way), about which I have long been passionate. I will be working with Sir Arthur and others to make this a reality. I just have to get my building skills up to snuff. And since I only have so much time for SL (less and less, it seems), there will be no more pole dancing and suchlike. I'm a respectable woman, now. My thanks, though, to all those who came out for that, and big thanks for the tips.

Also, Spooky has finished the first in a series of ten mini-Cthulhu sculptures. This one's sold, but seven are still available. You can see photos via her dollwork LJ, squid_soup.

Okay. The platypus is glaring, which means it's time wrap this up. Later, kiddos.