February 12th, 2006


this, and this, and this

I just read that NYC is getting its second heaviest snowfall on record. Here we saw a few flurries late this morning, nothing sticking. Mostly just grey skies. Spooky misses the snow. She's on the phone with her mother, who says they only have about six inches in Saunderstown (RI), though her sister, who's in Brooklyn, has a couple of feet.

Some part of me feels sick this morning. Not germ sick. Some intangible bit of me I can't treat with pills and the like. I'm very, very tired. I feel as though I could sleep a week. At least. We finished with read-through on Daughter of Hounds yesterday. Spooky cried again. It just left me feeling drained and at a loss. Like, okay, here it is. I've done this thing again, this book thing. I'm not sure I know what to make of it, all these stories I keep telling. A little bit after we'd finished, I admit I also got weepy, for the characters, for all the work that's already gone into the novel, for all of it. It's part relief. It's part dread. It's part weariness. Right now, I feel as though I could never write another novel and it would be for the best. Maybe I won't feel that way next week or next month. I suppose we'll see. I've put too much of myself into Daughter of Hounds, much more than I could spare. Now I want to hide it away somewhere, in a closet or beneath the bed. I don't want to see it edited and copyedited and published and reviewed and commented upon by readers. I just want to put it somewhere safe, and it could always be mine and never anyone else's. I don't know that I've ever felt this protective of one of my novels. I just want to keep it safe.

After we'd finished yesterday, Spooky and I took a walk in the cold. I needed twelve stones for a ritual. The wind was brutal. I expect it's worse today, so I probably won't leave the apartment. I'm going to try to rest today. Just rest. Tomorrow I have to begin the revisions. The book's due on March 1st, and there won't be another extension. That gives me, at most, fourteen or fifteen days to get all this done. And I'm trying not think about what comes after that. I really have no idea what comes after that.

I think we added one or two new Sirenia Digest subscribers yesterday. I'm very much hoping that there are more today. The Frog Toes and Tentacles letter S auction begins later this afternoon, but I figured I might as well go ahead and put up the photos of the book (behind the cut) and its "cozy," then I'll post a link as soon as it's up on eBay. The winner of the auction will also get a copy of False Starts, the chapbook published with FT&T.

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And it's Darwin Day. A day to celebrate life and the sciences that allow us to begin to understand life. So maybe I'll write something appropriately Darwinist later on...
new chi

Darwin Day 2006

The secrets of evolution are death and time — the deaths of enormous numbers of lifeforms that were imperfectly adapted to the enviroment; and time for a long succession of small mutations that were by accident adaptive, time for the slow accumulation of patterns of favorable mutations. Part of the resistance to Darwin and Wallace derives from our difficulty in imagining the passage of the millennia, much less the aeons. What does seventy million years mean to beings who live only one-millionth as long? We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it forever. — Carl Sagan

Charles Darwin (1809-1882)