Nothing much to say about yesterday. Having finished the read-through, deadline or no, I found it almost impossible to even look at the ms. I just wanted to crawl off somewhere and not think about Daughter of Hounds for a month or two. Instead, we did the "simple line edits" on the first half of the ms. Adding and subtracting commas. Correcting spelling. Rewording awkwardly worded sentences. Questioning adverbs. Forcing semi-colons to justify themselves. Dren like that, from page one to page three hundred and forty seven. More fun than flossing my teeth. We'll do the second half today. The very thought makes my heart skip a beat. Er...there were other things. I exchanged a number of e-mails with Chad Michael Ward re: the cover of the forthcoming mass-market paperback edition of Threshold discussing how Dancy's not a goth and has never worn a skirt. I'm sure there were still more writing-type things, put let's pretend otherwise.
I have to get to work on the vignettes for Sirenia Digest #6 (May). Rumour has it I'm taking requests.
Last night we rented A Sound of Thunder. I'd heard how awful it was, but as it's based on a Ray Bradbury short story, I just sort of felt I had to see it for myself. Let this stand as further evidence of my masochism. What a piece of crap. No, really. If you can't take time storms and dinosaurs and at least make something that's pretty to look at, you need to find work at Home Depot or Taco Bell or something and give someone else a go. The SFX in this turd were actually worse than those in Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. And I believe the script for A Sound of Thunder should stand forever as the template for all supposedly sf scripts that can't be bothered with, you know, science. Just as one of the three or four hundred errors I noted (in an effort to stay awake): If one wants to hunt an badly rendered CGI Allosaurus, one does not travel sixty-five million years into the past to a poor facsimile of the Late Cretaceous. Why? Because, Allosaurus became extinct about eighty million years earlier. I can only hope that this travesty's producers, director, and five screenwriters have subsequently suffered dire and permanent financial cataclysm as a warning to future generations of Hollywood story rapists. I just wish I had a microwave oven, so I could pop the disc in there for, oh, say two seconds before returning it.
A package from Subterranean Press just arrived with hardback copies of the "Mercury" chapbook, and they're very gorgeous. Also, the mail brought a package from Adriana and David Róze, the two halves of The Endless, and the package contains their new disc, The Republic of Heaven, which means I now have something to look forward to today. Small mercies. Thank you, Adriana and David!
Only twenty one days left until the dread -2. On the one hand, I refuse to fall prey to America's Cult of Youth and am determined that I will age gracefully and with dignity and all that good dren, but on the other hand...if I awoke tomorrow morning in the body of some unfortunate seventeen year old, I'd not be disappointed. Meanwhile, there's only the Amazon.com wishlist for solace.
"In this version, we learn that Jesus is actually Obi-Wan Kenobi..."