greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

"Black blizzard round a cold grey sun."

The Lamictal finally started taking affect about two weeks ago, and my moods stabilized. Until yesterday, and now depression has found me again. It's not the unmedicated, violent darkness, but it has sharp little claws, all these same.

Things would be better were I writing. I may not enjoy writing, and this may not be what I wanted to do with my life, but I'm healthier, saner, while I'm working. And by working I mean actually writing, not trying to figure out how to write a story, and not while I'm attending to the nonsense that often rides piggyback on this or that project. Actually writing. It gives the days a shape. It helps me not feel like a bum. What did I do today? Oh, I wrote 1,100 words. That beats having only thought about writing 1,100 words hands down, every time.

Yesterday, I only thought about writing.

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thank you.

On the eleventh, I wrote that I was going to begin looking for the way into The Dinosaurs of Mars, and that I would be trying, over the next couple of weeks, to answer the question, "After eight years, can I actually write this novella?" Well, here we are on the fourteenth, and I've written not one word. I'm still tossing around the basic structure of the narrative. I cannot, at this point, say too much more than "It isn't going well." There are all these stories I have to avoid allowing the novella to become, all these treacherous high concepts. "Jurassic Park in space," for example. I also do not want it to be another novella like The Dry Salvages, which docbrite accurately described as a "ripping good space yarn," all those years ago. The Dinosaurs of Mars is not meant to be a ripping god space yarn. There's also the problem that Ridley Scott's superb Prometheus (2013) actually scooped me on a good-sized chunk of the story. Which is what happens when you sit on a story forever; sooner or later, someone else beats you to it.

I had a good conversation with Bill Schafer (Subterranean Press) yesterday. It had been too long since we'd talked.

Last night, we watched Steven Soderburgh's 2002 adaptation of Stanislav Lem's Solaris (1961). It has its detractors, but I adore this film. It's most assuredly one of the few genuinely smart science-fiction films of the past couple of decades. Cliff Martinez' performance manages to steal the show. One thing that really jumped out at me this time was Cliff Martinez' soundtrack, perfectly matched to the film's quiet, ominous, haunted atmosphere. Martinez was the drummer on the first two Red Hot Chili Peppers albums, and he also worked with the final incarnation of Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band. He's an amazing and talented fellow.

I should at least try to work.

Blah, Blah, Blah,
Aunt Beast
Tags: 2006, bill, billy, captain beefheart, depression, dinosaurs of mars, good movies, not writing, pills for ills, prometheus, science fiction, solaris, stanislav lem, subterranean press, the dry salvages, writing
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