March 23rd, 2005


[title goes here, if you wish]

Yesterday went as well as one can ever expect a tedious day filled with the tedious busyness of writing which is not writing to go. I went back through "Bradbury Weather" again for Subterreanean Magazine. I read over "Alabaster" and decided it was as polished as it should be. I made arrangements for an interview. Spooky and I made plans for the author's photo for To Charles Fort, With Love. Stuff like that. But I did get through a very rough outline for Daughter of Hounds. Right now, I'm thinking 170,000 words is a more realistic final word count than 150,000, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

By the way, should you like to read "Alabaster" before the Dancy collection is released this autumn, you should go to the Subterranean Press website and sign-up for their free e-mail newsletter. The story will be serialized in the newsletter in two parts, beginning next week.

Ah. What else. I'm having to be quick about this, because I have an 11:30 thing with an editor at Marvel Comics. I keep shoving this project to the proverbial backburner, and it keeps getting pushed back to the front again.

Last night I read "The Night Ocean" by R. H. Barlow (and H. P. Lovecraft; this is one of his "collaborations") to Spooky. It's a very, very effective piece, despite the fact that Barlow too often veers into excessive simile, metaphor, and wild flights of exposition. I am always especially impressed when a story is so very effective when it's not particularly well worded. Sometimes, clumsy, inexpert magic is the best magic. "The Night Ocean," which Ramsey Campbell recently brought to my attention, is truly haunting, and I expect I shall have it in my head all day.

Spooky used the last of our credit at Criminal Records yesterday (credit from trading in all the CDs I got rid of when we moved) to get the new Moby and the new CD from The Wedding Present. I am especially enjoying the latter. The Moby is a two-disc set, one of which is ambient and reminds me of a blending of the soundtracks for Blade Runner and The Fifth Element (which is a good thing).

As though I needed some evidence that my...let's not say hate...let's say extreme disdain...for humans is in large part justified, I happened to bump into a joke about the Red Lake Reservation school shooting this morning. A joke. A child murders nine people, and it's fit matter for humour. I think humans will never need Great Cthulhu (literally or figuratively) to finish them off. They'll be laughing the day they finally get their shit together, organize, and hit that Big Red Auto-Extinction button. And I have no doubt that they'll still be laughing when they're but radioactive dust blowing through burned-out cities.

I'm beginning to suspect that consciousness simply drives some species insane. It might be as simple as that,

Okay. I gotta go. It's already nine after. Ugh. Telephones. Ugh. There's still a copy of the hardback of Low Red Moon on our eBay auction. Check it out, please and thank you.
  • Current Music
    The Wedding Present, "Interstate 5" (extended)

frell me sideways

This day has devolved from merely the usual sort of annoyance and uncertainty into full-blown Confusion and Incertitude. My agent just called to tell me that my editor at Penguin, John Morgan, is leaving for a job at DC Comics. My new editor will be Liz Scheier. I don't know what to expect from Liz. We haven't spoken yet; that happens tomorrow. Regardless, John will be missed. He was very good at not getting in the way, not trying to coauthor by editorial proxy and suchlike. His enthusiasm for Murder of Angels was wonderful. He called me a moment ago. Bang. Bang. This is the first time I've lost an editor during the writing of a novel.

So. Crap. It doesn't change anything about the publication schedule of Daughter of Hounds, and my agent was very encouraging about the new editor, who's apparently very pleased that she'll be working with me, but it's still not the sort of thing I needed just now.

Maybe it'll make me feel better if I complain about something. For example, it's been eating at me lately how many people have read Low Red Moon and mistakenly concluded that Narcissa Snow is, literally, a werewolf. She is not. At no point in the book does Narcissa transform into anything (which is rather her problem, actually) except in visions and bad dreams and Chance's morphine-induced hallucinations. It makes sense that Chance would think of Narcissa as "the werewolf," because she has no knowledge of the ghul, no point of reference. And no, the ghouls are not werewolves, either, though I've seen comments from readers to that effect, as well. There are no actual werewolves in Low Red Moon.

Nope. That didn't really make me feel any better.

Another weird online pharmacy spam today. This time the extraneous text conisisted of quotes from Aristotle, David Copperfield, and a number of other sources. Why? I don't know.

I shall go break something fragile now.
  • Current Music
    VNV Nation, "Airships"

The American South — Bastion of Enlightenment

Well, I've found nothing suitablly fragile to mangle, or perhaps I merely am lacking in the requisite will, so I'll pass along this story from CNN, courtesy blu_muse, proving yet again that some parts of the South might clean up pretty nice and all, but the wages of inbreeding and fundamentalist religion run deep:

IMAX theaters reject film over evolution: Some theaters in South believe 'Volcanoes' a tough sell (Wednesday, March 23, 2005 Posted: 9:48 AM EST [1448 GMT])

Someday, Southerners may finally get tired of looking like ignorant assholes, but I doubt it. Mostly, I want a warm, tectonically stable, politically progressive alternative that I might at last flee these accurs'd lands once and for all.
  • Current Music
    my teeth grinding like continental plates