Here is Providence, it's turning cold again – same as most of the East – and we've had vicious wind since night before last, with gusts up to 30 mph. The wind sets my nerves in edge. It makes me even more anxious than usual.
Of course, the truth is that I've been blogging daily since November 24th, 2001. I began at Blogger, then started this LJ in 2004. For the first year of so, it was a mirror of the Blogger account. In 2006, I think, I stopped mirroring, and I began posting here exclusively. Anyway, it's the LJ that is turning ten; I've been a day-to-day blogger for twelve years and four months and two weeks (and spare change). And now, I think I am truly, genuinely going to step away from this (she says, not at all comfortable with what she's doing, and yet, still, knowing it's what she needs to do). All these many millions of words are enough. All these entries on which I usually spent an hour or two apiece. But I find myself thinking, what will I do with the spare time? Well, I can get more work done, for one. I can read in the morning, instead of blogging. I can just sit here and stare out the window or have a cigarette, wake up, not wonder how to entertain and hold anyone's interest in a blog entry. I also find myself thinking, will I even bother taking photographs when we go out? After all, to whom would I show the photos? I find myself asking a lot of questions of myself. I have some answers, but many answers I don't have.
But I've grown very, very tired of talking here. I'm tired of reporting on my life and work. I'm tired of whining about how much I hate writing and the cold of New England. I'm tired of reporting on my health (mental and physical), addiction, insomnia, homesickness, regrets, and so forth. I'm tired of venting my anger here. I'm tired of politics. I'm tired of feeling as if I need to justify my beliefs to...well, anyone. Ever. That doesn't just go for LJ. Or just even the internet. I think I am no longer an intellectual. I'm something else. I'm no longer even argumentative.
When I began the LJ, I was living in a renovated 1920s school house in Kirkwood, southeast Atlanta. I was writing Murder of Angels, I believe.
Today, I'll begin compiling the manuscript of The Best of Caitlín R. Kiernan: Beneath an Oil-Dark Sea (Volume Two), an enormous fucking undertaking, and I'm supposed to deliver the ms. to Subterranean Press on May 15th. I also have to begin putting together new editions of Tales of Pain and Wonder and To Charles Fort, With Love for PS Publishing. The former will, essentially, be the 2007 Subterranean Press text, with corrections.
Soon, probably a couple of weeks from now, I have to begin Alabaster: The Good, The Bad, and The Bird, as the first script need to go to Dark Horse in May.
Four nights now without Seroquel, and I'm averaging five hours sleep a night. Not nearly enough. This morning, I began reading The Old Man and the Sea for the first time since eighth grade.
Here's a thought: My 50th birthday is fast approaching. Thank me for all these free words by visiting my Amazon wish list, if you've a mind to do so.
Of course, I'll still be on Facebook, and you can follow me there. No, it's not the same, but it's what I have to offer.
Before I go, two things:
1. I will continue to make occasional posts here, mostly announcements and updates on books, along with occasional reports on interesting trips and so forth. I am not closing the LJ, I'm ceasing to use it as a daily journal. There's quite a difference. So, feel free to check back from time to time. Please.
2. My thanks to Gordon Duke, who bought me the permanent account. My sincere thanks to all the readers down all the years, most of whom stopped reading the LJ years ago. Thanks for all the comments. Also, I will be reading and replying to any comments made today.
And I think that'll do, Pig. Be cool, kittens. As the Ghūl say (oddly enough), walk in the light, and watch your shadow.
If I change my mind next week, or next month, and crank this thing up again...well, you'll figure that out, won't you? Sure you will. A thought in closing: The worst reason in the world not to read a book is because it's not about people like yourself. This most definitely includes books written by "dead white men."
In Pain and Wonder,