July 28th, 2005



I know I must have slept last night. I'm quite certain of it, because I have recollections of nightmares that must have occurred in an alternate mode of consciousness from that which I am presently experiencing (unless they are other sorts of memories, from some other alternate). But I feel like I haven't slept at all. I am almost painfully not awake.

Yesterday, I wrote a very decent 1,535 words on Chapter Seven of Daughter of Hounds (which means the chapter presently stands at 7,017 words, written since the 23rd). The progress (or, if you insist, the "illusion" of progress) is nice, but there's no escaping the truth that writing this novel is pretty much a long walk through a very dark room. Maybe it's a long walk through a very dark attic with a rotten floor. I continue moving from one side — p. 1 — towards the other side — THE END (someday I shall write a book backwards) — placing one foot in front of the other, trusting that there will be solid floor ahead of and beneath me. But never knowing. And now that I've just written that out, thinking back on the last tumbling step Emmie Silvey took yesterday, my metaphor and the action of the book seem to have converged in a way that must be meaningful, at least to me (and the author is the only person for whom a novel must hold meaning). And, also, I seem to have reached that point with this novel that I usually reach with novels, where I have become fiercely protective of whatever thread my subconscious is reeling out, or whatever link currently exists between me and a wider unconscious mind. Early on, I'm usually pretty agreeable about stuff. Maybe this shouldn't happen. Maybe that should. Perhaps I should outline a few chapters. Should I rewrite Chapter Three? Perhaps I should know, this time, how it all turns out before I write it down. That's how it always starts. But by Chapter Six or Seven, I shed any pretense at being reasonable. I begin to fear that some flow or communication (between me and myself) will be interrupted.

I've been told by Bill Schafer that Bob Eggleton is doing the illustration for "Bradbury Weather," for issue #2 of Subterranean Magazine. I adore Bob's work. If you'll recall, he did the painting for the cover of From Weird and Distant Shores.

After the writing yesterday, it began to rain, which was nice. I like summer, but lately there's been a little too much of a good thing. After dinner, we walked in a downpour, which was even nicer. The air felt sort of clean for the first time in weeks.

Spooky has posted a photo she took of the offending heart, the severed ventricles of the sheep, in her LJ. Just click here.

We never did get around to listing The Dry Salvages and The Worm in My Mind's Eye on eBay yesterday, but hopefully that will be remedied this very afternoon. And I think that's it for this morning. Time to make the doughnuts.
  • Current Music
    Modern English, "I'll Stop the World and Melt With You"

The Good, The Bad, and The Unearthly

Addendum: The Provisional IRA has announced its intentions to destroy its arsenal within two months, after having announced yesterday that it was ending its 35-year campaign of violence. This is something I've been waiting much of my life to see happen. It's another important step to setting things right in Ireland.

Meanwhile, NASA has grounded the shuttle fleet, and I don't even see the point in making snarky comments. As long as the U.S. government doesn't see fit to properly fund the American space programme...oh, never mind.

And finally, there may be methanogenic bacteria on Titan. Sure, they're not sexy and grey and bent of pacifying the galaxy with mental clensings, but I'd settle for a decent extraterrestrial methanogen ecosystem.
  • Current Music
    Spooky making dinner