Also. I have to get some "What would Skuntaur do?" bumper stickers printed, tout suite.
I slept seven hours last night, without any sleep aid.
Yesterday was spent in a mad flurry of loose ends, tying them off, snipping them, all for an upcoming Dark Horse release. But said publisher has not yet told me if I can finally talk about said book, so...right. A new preface. Order of illustrations. Which illustrations I don't want used. Ordering the contents of said book. Decision to include original afterword. Authors photo. New biography. Exactly half a dozen inquiries and requests, then a couple more later on. But I probably shouldn't say what the book is, unfortunately.
Oh! Wait! I just got word from Dark Horse, even as I was typing that I can announce the book. Excelsior! Early in 2014, Dark Horse will be releasing Alabaster: Pale Horse, a new edition of the original Alabaster short-story collection (2006, 2010, Subterranean Press). It'll include the contents of the original plus "Highway 97" (originally available only as a chapbook), with illustrations by the dashing Ted Naifeh and a cover by the magnificent Greg Ruth. It's gonna rock, kiddos.
Today will most likely be spent pulling together Sirenia Digest #91, which will include "Pushing Back the Sky (Death of a Blasphemer)," plus the next misbegotten chapter of Fay Grimmer. "Pushing Back the Sky (Death of a Blasphemer)" is an interesting experiment in which I get Lord Dunsany all over my Lovecraft.
Jesus God, I'm fucking sick of the internet. All of it, stem to goddamn stern. Yeah, I know. It's the umbilicus, and without it we all fucking wither and fucking die. It's the new heroin, the new oxygen, the new dihydrogen monoxide. But I am puking sick of it. Since 1994 it has dominated my life. I lived the first twenty-nine years of my live entirely free of that parasite.
Can you even imagine that? Well, if you were born in the late eighties or early nineties, I know you can't. But the rest of us.
Let's take a cue from Harlan Ellison and call it the Digital Teat.
It has changed the way publishing works...obviously. I'm not even talking about the scourge of ebooks and Kindles and that sort of thing. It's changed the demands that publishers put on authors. We are expected to do things now. Even if we're not at home when an email comes. We are expected to edit digitally (a trick I still haven't mastered and refuse to learn).
I'm going to write my next short story on my 1941 Royal typewriter. The editor will get a carbon copy on onionskin paper (links for the chilluns). Fuck expectations. They don't like it, they can reject it.
Also, I'm gearing up for a digital-free week. No internet. No MMOs. No email. No Twitter. No Facebook. No LJ. No iPod.
Revolting in Analog,