June 12th, 2009


Bleeding stones, our specialty.

I last left the house, was last Outside, on Monday, which was the last day we saw the sun. There are thunderstorms moving towards us now. The temperature is currently 70F, so that's something of a minor improvement. The insomnia was bad last night, and then the nightmares this morning, and you may think none of this is relevant. But everything plays a factor in the shape of the stories. Everything.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,207 words on "The Alchemist's Daughter," which now stands at 6,279 words. It will likely go to at least 9,000, though I sincerely hope to have it finished by Sunday evening, at the very latest, as there is another short story I have to write this month.

Do please have a look at the current eBay auctions. All proceeds go towards the expense of attending ReaderCon 20, which is likely the only convention I'll be doing this year. The cost of cons has simply become too exorbitant to justify (or maybe it's the cost of everything else). I will also probably be doing a very small number of signings/readings for The Red Tree, in Providence, Boston, and possibly Manhattan. But I don't presently foresee doing any other public appearances this year. I have enough trouble just making it out the door, most days.

How about something not so glum? We haven't been able to get any work done on the trailer for The Red Tree because of this vile weather (it's almost all exterior shots), but Spooky has been filming the cats. To wit, "The Waking of Sméagol."

Waking the Smeagol from Kathryn Pollnac on Vimeo.

Okay. Coffee now.

"Symptom Recital"

"Symptom Recital" (minus two lines, & therefore with apologies to the author)

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I have to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me anymore.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.

Dorothy Parker