Yesterday was consumed by a combination of unpacking, email, and attempting to figure out how the fuck to make this cluttered house livable until such time as we get the fuck out of here, also know as August.
Today, I need to begin actual writing-type writing work. I have deadlines for four short stories and a 2,500-word novella, and three of those deadlines are before July 31. Plus, I have to produce at least one new piece a month for Sirenia Digest, which means I'm looking at a minimum of six short stories and a novella between now and July 31. Plus my work on the screenplay. I need two more of me. I believe that I'm going to begin with a retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Snow Queen" (1844), which I've promised to an anthology. Then I'll be doing something for Sirenia Digest #111. There's an auspicious number. So, yeah, no more fucking around, Kiernan. Get off your bony old ass.
In his introduction to Beneath an Oil-Dark Sea, S.T. Joshi kindly states that I have nothing left to prove; au contraire, mon bon ami. I have to prove that I can keep this up for the rest of my life.
While we were in Woodstock, Spooky and Hubero went for many walks about the property, skirting the edge of the forest. Hubero came to us leash-and-harness trained. Cats on leashes seem to freak people out, but Hubero is perfectly happy being a cat on a string. He's not perfectly happy being back here with no woods to wander about in, no birds to stalk, no trees to climb (even if only a few feet up), no deer to watch. Here are a few photos from his last couple of walks by the cabin:
30 March 2015
30 March 2015
30 March 2015
31 March 2015 (a cat-level view).
31 March 2015
31 March 2015 (He was watching deer, the weirdest dogs he'd ever seen.)
All Photographs Copyright © 2015 by Kathryn A. Pollnac
The season finale of The Walking Dead had to be one of the most superbly tense hours of television I've ever experienced. Indeed, the second half of the season was, I think, uniformly brilliant. I was a little disappointed with the episode directed by Jennifer Lynch, as there were a couple of scenes that were pretty much ruined by the camera lingeringly lovingly on gore, essentially turning two deaths into fetish and camp. That may sound like an odd complaint for this series, but there you go. Rarely does the series seem to revel in gore, no matter how gory it gets. The gore is simply a fact of existence, the byproduct of a situation. Gore is merely is merely a sort of weather. Which is one reason I like it.
We're going to be starting eBay up again, and we'll be eBaying our brains out for the next few months. One thing we'll be offering is signed sets of the Quinn novels, Blood Oranges, Red Delicious, and Cherry Bomb. So keep your eyes peeled for those. So to speak.