August 10th, 2012

CatvonD vamp

"Dreaming of Mercy Street, wear your inside out."

Yesterday, or the day before (I actually can't remember), FedEx brought an envelope from Dark Horse that I suspect contains the final issue of Alabaster: Wolves. I'm not sure, because I haven't opened it. Probably, I never will. I've said many times, I don't read my books once their published, once it's done.

Oh, Spooky says the FedEx envelope came day before yesterday. Regardless, Alabaster: Wolves #5 will be in stores August 15th. I approve of the quote from the Geeks of Doom website: ...Gentle and horrific and apocalyptic all at once. But only if apocalyptic is understood in its original meaning. That is, "a prophetic disclosure or revelation." And as long as horrific is understood to mean something much more complex than scary. The gentle part, I'll take that as is, thank you.

Yesterday, I only managed 1,256 words on Chapter Two of Fay Grimmer. My mood had the grim part down, but the fay kept slipping through my fingers.

A couple of days back, I declared on Twitter that I would write no more "dark fantasy" short fiction, but only "science fiction," until I was generally recognized as an author of science fiction. That is, until I'm released from the kindergarten of "horror" and allowed to play with the Big Boys and Girls. Mostly boys, but they have let a few girls in. I'm trying to decide if I can keep this promise. I want to, certainly. The chief concern is time, as I need much more time to write science fiction. But, you know, think about how Ray Bradbury earned the title "greatest living science fiction author," when he was surely as great a fantasist as any whose ever lived. And people think of Harlan Ellison as an sf author, when, technically, he's probably written more fantasy, of one stripe or another, than anything else. But, yeah. This is a thing I'm seriously considering. Novels are exempt. Also, today's standards are exempt. Fuck the droning dullness of "mundane" sf. Fuck the "singularity." You'd find me mostly (as always) playing in the unfashionable space opera, retro-cyberpunk, so-called "bio-punk" (which I do tons of already), and social (or "soft") sf sandboxes.

Probably, I sold two new books yesterday, the next collection and a novella. That ought count as a good day, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it?

So, what is this stone around my chest? Why is it so hard to breathe? Why these moribund ideations?

Why not?

Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
~ Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus"


Don't forget, the Perseids peak this weekend, as Earth passes through the dusty remains of the comet Swift-Tuttle. So, look to the northeast and watch the sky fall.

And Jesus fuck, isn't the world sick of fucking zombies yet?

Gentle & Horrific & Apocalyptic, All At Once,
Aunt Beast