As I have mentioned here earlier, To Charles Fort, With Love has been nominated for two International Horror Guild awards (the "Iggys") and two World Fantasy awards. Well, actually, the collection as a whole has one Iggy nom and one WFA nom, and "La Peau Verte" also has one of each, for a total of four. Unfortunately, I am unable to attend the WFC in Austin next month, where the award ceremonies will be held. Too much work, and I just can't afford the expense of a con right now, even one so near to hand as Texas. Still, I am very grateful, as that book means a lot to me, and I don't want anyone attending the con to think I'm not there because I don't care, because I do.
Amazon.com has finally added the cover of Daughter of Hounds to the ordering page. I still have mixed feelings about this cover, but hopefully it will lure a lot of eyeballs to the shelves. You can pre-order the novel from Amazon for a mere $11.20 (plus s&h).
Spooky has at last (almost) finished her latest doll, the boy with green hair who brings the amber bottle to Dancy in Savannah (see "Les Fleurs Empoisonnées" in Alabaster). Yes, it will be auctioned on eBay. She has declared this her "second slowest doll ever," as only the Barker took her longer to complete. More details tomorrow.
I think I may be very, very near to unlocking the narrative structure of The Dinosaurs of Mars, which has eluded me for months. I think I've figured out that I'm spending too much time trying to second guess sf reviewers and critics who want cutting edge, socially-relevant sf with no unsightly hints of space opera. But the truth is, I just want to write a novella about the discovery of dinosaur bones on Mars, and about the implications of that discovery back on Earth, with a few gratuitous jabs at UFO nuts, ancient-astronaut cults, and creationists, and have some fun doing it. I need to forget about the reviewers who have me chasing my own tail, the ones who believe that only sf stories concerning the "technological singularity" are the proper concern of contemporary sf. Actually, the singularity is so last week. By now, they've probably moved on to something else. Still, I am writing this story for me. It will not be blistering social commentary or feature startling and accurate predictions about the glorious (or not so glorious) future of humanity or the course of science or The Next Big Thing. It's just gonna be a story I want to write. Bill Schafer called yesterday to ask if I'd started it yet, and I had to say no, that between Tales from the Woeful Platypus and "The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 3)" and all the frelling goddamn second-guessing I've been doing, I'd not yet started the piece. Hopefully, I'll begin it early next week, now that I finally have that last bit, the second-guessing, out of the way.
It occurred to me last night, just before bed, that this Halloween will mark the tenth anniversary of the first Death's Little Sister show, at the long-defunct Galaxy 500 in Athens, Georgia. Ten years. Wow. That seem's absolutely impossible.
The last couple of nights, we've had some beautiful fog. You don't get that much fog around here. It reminds me of Dublin and Rhode Island. I wanted to grab a flashlight, run outside, and play lightsabers (but I didn't — sigh). Anyway, after the writing yesterday, I was so fried (and annoyed I'd not been able to finish the piece) that we dropped by Videodrome and rented Season One of Futurama. We grabbed slices at Fellini's, then I spent most of the evening in front of the TV. I was very pleased with the way things turned out on Project Runway. I was disappointed that Michael didn't have a stronger showing, but Uli and Jeffrey were spectacular. Bring on Season 4! Oh, I did get some reading done, as well; just not enough.