I'm planning to attend the World Fantasy Convention in Austin this November. That is, barring any as yet unforeseen financial disasters or what have you. I've not been to WFC since 1997 in London. Conventions are just too frelling expensive, what with the costs of travel, hotels, registration, and the lure of the dealer's room and art show. I don't know how some writers manage to attend so many of them a year.
As of today, we have only a couple of weeks remaining until we leave Atlanta for Rhode Island. Which is sort of terrifying. This summer is speeding past. I have at least twice as much work to get done between now and the time we leave as I could reasonably be expected to do. But life is not only filled with shame, it's also unreasonable. To wit, I have declared that today is the calm before the storm, or as Gandalf said to Pippin, the deep breath before the plunge. I'm taking Spooky to see Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, because we were supposed to see it Thursday night, but I've not stopped writing or trying to write to do much else.
My thanks to Pierre Karcher, who kindly sent me Robert Earl Keen's "The Story of Christabel" last night, and who writes:
I have recently finished reading Murder of Angels, having read the previous novels of that cycle in a row, which means I've been reading you for a couple of months, diving deep in the atmosphere of this Jungian nightmare...so I couldn't help thinking of your work when rediscovering this song, which had been haunting my hard-drive for a while...I hope you enjoy it.
And, while I'm at, since I never seem to get around to posting letters from readers, here's another, this one from Audrey "Rocks":
Thank you for writing Threshold. And To Charles Fort, with Love, even though the stories rock me so far off my foundation that I can only read one every two weeks, because those stories, they just dig their tentacles into various parts of your brain so you wander around for a week with a story sucking nutrients out of your skull.
What? Well I do, anyway.
So thank you. Especially for "La Mer des Reves", which rendered me unable to read anything at all for a solid six days. I have Low Red Moon at home on my bookshelf, and I'm treating it like a religious artefact: I can't get quite near enough to it yet to read it, because then I'll have read it, and while I'll probably have to email you again afterwords to thank you for writing it, it will have been converted from potential energy to the other kind which I always forget. But thank you. Your work is awesome, in the actual, denotative sense of the word, not the drowned surfer off Laguna Beach sense. I cannot wait to see Alabaster and Daughter of Hounds.
I love the image of my stories as things possessing brain-piercing tentacles. So, you're welcome and thank you, too, Audrey.
We had a very fine long walk yesterday, longer than our usual. It was almost entirely uneventful, but then, near the end, we stumbled upon an utterly bizarre sort of altar or reliquary beneath a stand of pine trees. I'm calling it the "pet sematary." I may post some photos this evening. Later, we watched the new ep of Deadwood, which was absolutely stellar, then finished Jeff VanderMeer's delightful "The Transformation of Martin Lake" from City of Saints and Madmen. A bit of trivia here: "The Transformation of Martin Lake" first appeared in the final issue of Palace Corbie (#8; Merrimack Books, 1999), along with the first appearance of my story, "Salammbô."
Okay. I need to get dressed, because I doubt the theatre will let me in wearing just my under things. Please have a look at the eBay auctions, if you will. Bid or buy. The platypus wandered in a few minutes ago, half-awake, rubbing herhisits eyes, hungover, and upon hearing there's to be no writing today, has promptly fallen back to sleep atop a stack of books. Poor old bean...