greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

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that's my soul up there

Very soon, Murder of Angels will be in the stores (actually, it's probably already in the stores, just not on the shelves) and, like I've said, I'm so not ready for this. I'm not ready. There, I've said it three times now. I feel like I need to warn people, at least the people who've read Silk, that they should check their expectations. This is probably not what will be expected of a sequel to Silk. For starters, this is not a novel revolving around a Southern city's half-assed attempt at a punk scene. If Silk was a novel about the impact of history (past present) upon the present, of the hauntings facilitated by memory and consciousness, then Murder of Angels is a novel about taking responsibility for one's life and actions and loved ones in light of the weight of all that past. We move beyond existential shock in this one. Spyder Baxter did that in Silk, though I'm not sure anyone else did. Oh, and there's Spyder. I know a lot of readers have grown to fairly worship her, and there will be readers who are not pleased with who she's become in MoA. I worry about them a lot. When I started writing SIlk in '93, at age 29, I was awfully close to being Spyder Baxter, in almost every sense. But this is more than a decade later. Writing this book, I was closer to Daria and Niki than to Spyder. No, not to the people they were in Silk, because this is a decade later, but to the people they've become. I'm not making much sense. We're long past the point where I can shelter this book or make excuses for it. It has to take care of itself now.

I took advantage of my laziness yesterday to get out of the apartment. Spooky and I prowled about Morningside, Virginia Highlands, and parts adjacent. We located a Thai restaurant we haven't tried, which smelled invitingly of jasmine, but ended up having dinner at a trusted favourite (also Thai), instead of trying the new place. But some asshole had chopped down four very large, old trees near the trusted favourite, trees that were not only fine things in their own right, but which, if we must justify their lives by recourse to service to humans, kept the blazing afternoon sun off the restaurant. I hope there is a special Hell for tree murderers. There should be chainsaws and indifference. Atlanta is a city sorely lacking in greenspace, smothering in smog, and it can't afford to lose perfectly good, oxygen-producing trees. Anyway, we sweltered on the previously comfortable patio and tried to enjoy our dinner. We started with pork loin buried in mounds of fresh garlic, green and red chilies, cilantro, fish sauce, and lime, all on a bed of shredded cabbage, a dish so hot it really ought to be eaten last as it strips the taste buds and renders them useless for a day or so.

Where's the Lorax when you need him?

Of course, the Lorax failed.

The right side of my face still aches, but I seem to have recovered, otherwise.

Today, I have to get myself unmired from the "Bradbury Weather" scene in which I have mired myself. I feel like a mammoth stuck in tar up to my ass. The sabre-tooths are watching through the tall grass.

There was a great documentary on Frank Frazetta on IFC last night. Painting With Fire. I went through a "phase" as a child/preteen when my most favourite author was Edgar Rice Burroughs, and this was back when Ace was releasing all his books as paperbacks with those fabulous Frazetta covers. 1975-'78 or so, I guess. I was eleven, twelve, thirteen, etc. I still have all those paperbacks (which is surprising, as little survives from my tumultuous childhood) with their startling, terrifying, sexy, deliciously creepy covers, many of which were featured in Painting With Fire.

Okay. Time to make the doughnuts...

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