"People they laugh when they hear you're from my town."
Buildings are empty like ghettos or ghost-towns.
It gives me a chill to think what was inside.
I can't seem to fathom the dark of my history.
I invented my own... ~ Neko Case
Rainy here. Rainy yesterday. It's only 72˚F, but it feels like 69˚F. I made the mistake of leaving the House yesterday; I won't make it again today.
There hasn't been much writing. Precious little progress on "The Cats of River Street (1925)." I thought – or I hoped – that I was beyond this dithering. I was clearly wrong.
I know that I've written about the decline in productivity I've experienced since 2012. I must have written about it in detail at some point. I can't find the cause. I thought it was the meds, so I went off them, and everything went to fuck. I'm back on them, and it's still all I can do to produce anything. There's no describing this frustration and panic. I'm not writing. Or I'm writing so little I might as well not be writing. Sooner or later, unless things change, there will be a financial crisis. I cannot solve this problem if I cannot locate the cause.
I sold "Far From Any Shore" to S.T. Joshi for Black Wings V. He'll be writing the afterword for Houses Under the Sea: Mythos Tales.
From Facebook, yesterday:
Any joy I might have felt at finally seeing one of my novels translated into French is entirely negated at the disappointment of seeing the shoddy excuse for a French edition of The Drowning Girl (La Fille qui se noie). A cheaply produced tpb printed on highly acidic rag paper that's already begun to degrade, with a cover that looks like it was hammered out in thirty minutes. It's the sort of thing I'd expect from an American POD. I have been impressed with the Turkish and Brazilian editions, and I'm in love with the Spanish edition, but France dropped the ball. If given a chance, I also never would have approved that translation of the title.
And:
I should be at the San Diego ComicCon today. Instead, I'm here in Rhode Island, hating the weather and hating my goddamn treacherous body that made going to San Diego impossible. I do not, however, miss the vile crowd.
And:
For those who have asked, yes I am staunchly anti-war. I am not, however, a pacifist. That's only a contradiction if you don't think about it.
And, back on the 24th:
More and more I see that I am a creature of the 20th century, and, truly, of the mid 20th century. I'll never adapt to this strange plastic and pixel world. I accept that, even though, increasingly, the cultural landscape baffles, angers, and frightens me.
Time to make the doughnuts.
Baffled,
Aunt Beast
It gives me a chill to think what was inside.
I can't seem to fathom the dark of my history.
I invented my own... ~ Neko Case
Rainy here. Rainy yesterday. It's only 72˚F, but it feels like 69˚F. I made the mistake of leaving the House yesterday; I won't make it again today.
There hasn't been much writing. Precious little progress on "The Cats of River Street (1925)." I thought – or I hoped – that I was beyond this dithering. I was clearly wrong.
I know that I've written about the decline in productivity I've experienced since 2012. I must have written about it in detail at some point. I can't find the cause. I thought it was the meds, so I went off them, and everything went to fuck. I'm back on them, and it's still all I can do to produce anything. There's no describing this frustration and panic. I'm not writing. Or I'm writing so little I might as well not be writing. Sooner or later, unless things change, there will be a financial crisis. I cannot solve this problem if I cannot locate the cause.
I sold "Far From Any Shore" to S.T. Joshi for Black Wings V. He'll be writing the afterword for Houses Under the Sea: Mythos Tales.
From Facebook, yesterday:
Any joy I might have felt at finally seeing one of my novels translated into French is entirely negated at the disappointment of seeing the shoddy excuse for a French edition of The Drowning Girl (La Fille qui se noie). A cheaply produced tpb printed on highly acidic rag paper that's already begun to degrade, with a cover that looks like it was hammered out in thirty minutes. It's the sort of thing I'd expect from an American POD. I have been impressed with the Turkish and Brazilian editions, and I'm in love with the Spanish edition, but France dropped the ball. If given a chance, I also never would have approved that translation of the title.
And:
I should be at the San Diego ComicCon today. Instead, I'm here in Rhode Island, hating the weather and hating my goddamn treacherous body that made going to San Diego impossible. I do not, however, miss the vile crowd.
And:
For those who have asked, yes I am staunchly anti-war. I am not, however, a pacifist. That's only a contradiction if you don't think about it.
And, back on the 24th:
More and more I see that I am a creature of the 20th century, and, truly, of the mid 20th century. I'll never adapt to this strange plastic and pixel world. I accept that, even though, increasingly, the cultural landscape baffles, angers, and frightens me.
Time to make the doughnuts.
Baffled,
Aunt Beast