January 31st, 2009


"Someone turn me round. Can I start this again?"

I think I'm simply going to stop trying to sleep. I'll avoid the nightmares, and won't have to complain about insomnia.

All of yesterday was spent proofing and editing "The Belated Burial" and "The Thousand-and-Third Tale of Scheherazade" for Sirenia Digest #38, and laying out the issue. And I might have even gotten it out to subscribers last night, except I discovered that a file I needed for the issue was in our storage unit in Pawtucket, so we had to stop everything and make the drive to Pawtucket to retrieve the file. Finally, at seven p.m. last night, I admitted it would be today before #38 was released.

We still have a lot of snow on the ground. And a lot of slush and ice. A whole month of snow. But there were some beautiful sights on the drive yesterday. Old North Burial Ground in Providence was splendid in all that white, the gravestones and monuments standing out in sharp relief. In Pawtucket, we stopped on Roosevelt Avenue and walked back to the Main Street Bridge (circa 1858) to get photographs of Slater's Mill and the Blackstone River in all the snow. Slater's Mill (which gets a brief mention in The Red Tree) is often cited as the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution in America. Built in 1793, it was the the first commercially viable cotton-spinning mill in the US. The sidewalks along Main and Roosevelt were icy and flanked by three-foot mounds of muddy, sandy slush, but the day was warmer than our days have been, and I couldn't resist stopping for a better look. There are photos below, behind the cut.

We've found someone here in Providence to convert the Death's Little Sister tracks (I only have them on cassette) to mp3s. And I'm choosing pieces to read for the podcasts. Someone yesterday suggested "vlogging," rather than simple audio recording. I'd never even heard of "vlogging." I'm going to stick to audio, I think. I can't imagine how perfectly, dreadfully dull it would be to watch me reading text off my iMac. I worry enough about how I sound, without also having to worry about how I look.

Remember when writers just, you know, wrote?

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