I am very fond of bumblebees, as it turns out.
I wanted to quote a bit from Andisheh Nouraee's latest "Don't Panic" column (from Creative Loafing):
Are Americans really torturing people?
As sure as the handcuffs in my dresser drawer are fur-lined, Americans enjoy inflicting pain on others. In a January 2004 about the popularity of sadomasochism, Time estimated that the United States is home to 250 S&M organizations. What the article didn't mention was that two of those organizations are the CIA and the U.S, Department of Defense.
Of course, now I'm stuck with this image of Donald Rumsfeld in stiletto heels.
Ah, what do I care about silly human politics. I have this book to write. This book that wants to be written, and yet, simultaneously, it vexes me. I think it's the scope of the thing. I think it's mostly having to deal with the weight of Sadie and Deacon's past, with what happened to Chance, with the whole bothersome issue of Narcissa Snow. At the moment, it's Sadie who's giving me trouble. In 2010, the present day of Daughter of Hounds, she's still trying to come to terms with the things that happened to her way back in November 2002. Which means, because this is not simply a sequel but a more-or-les stand-alone novel, that I have to relay to the reader exactly what did happen to her, the same way that, in Murderr of Angels, I had to let the reader know about Keith Barry and the bad things that happened in the old house on Cullom Street. I do not have the luxury of J. K. Rowling. I cannot assume a zillion people read Threshold and Low Red Moon and are now clamouring for What Happens Next. In fact, I can assume that they aren't. So, I have to artfully include lots of backstory. And that's where I've gotten stuck. There's so much of it, and I have to weed out everything but the moments that were truly defining. I have to be economical. Anyway, I was at it for several hours yesterday and managed to write only 301 words; I dren you not. Chapter Two was completed back on January 23rd. Sheesh.
At least I'm sleeping better, these past two or three nights. I got an e-mail from Ramsey Campbell this morning, asking about my insomnia. It comes and goes. It's been a companion most of my life. I do not like to dream, that's part of it. I do not like to dream because I suspect that dreams are not what they are so often dismissed as, merely the subconscious letting off steam, but some greater facet of "reality." Oh, Caitlín, do not get started on that. You only have five minutes left.
Right. Five minutes. And I must mention the eBay auctions, because work still needs to be done on Spooky's car. Were I J. K. Rowling, this would not be an issue. I'd just license a bunch of inflatable Gryffindor kiddy pools or something of the like and impoverished Chinese factory workers would churn them out faster than you could say Hufflepuff. But, clearly, I am not J. K. Rowling. So, instead, I ask that you have a look at the auctions. Thank you. Spooky's car would thank you, too, if only it could.