The frelling cryosphere is kicking my ass. Little does it know I shall soon depart for warmer climes. Someone else can play here.
We spent yesterday moving boxes from here to there. Today, I may begin packing the office, all these shelves and shelves of books. I think I'm going to like the new place, but that doesn't make me any keener for the actual act of moving, especially after the trip to Minneapolis. Mostly, I seem to want to sleep.
And write. Daughter of Hounds is calling me back, and I know it'll be at least another eleven or twelve days before I can return to work on it. My brain can only try to cache my thoughts for later. I hate scribbling things down. I want to actually sit down and write, in a quiet, calm, not-box-littered enviroment.
I spoke with Bill Schafer last night about many things, and he says that the tentative release date on The Dry Salvages is now December 11th. I'll keep you posted. Also, the subpress hardback of Low Red Moon, which I know some of you have been waiting on almost forever, should be along very soon, as well. Just hang in there a little longer.
My thanks to David Kirkpatrick for a very nice e-mail regarding the impending remaindering of Silk. I will quote a portion of it, a bit I particularly appreciated:
I tend to think of each novel from an author as a stepping-stone in a stream. Some streams are fast-moving, turbulent, and potentially treacherous, while others are smooth and slow-moving, but potentially possessing hidden depths that will unleash something to swallow you whole. Each stepping-stone is unique also - some are solid and comforting to stand upon, others precipitously slimy, and so on. While perched on each stepping-stone, I can look down into the water, and see what can be seen. If the books are the stepping-stones, the streams are the things left unsaid by the author - the twirling, swirling might-have-beens that never coalesced into a stepping-stone. I don't equate the stream with the author, as that would be too pat, but rather with the intentions and desires of the author. We all have our streams, but true authors are unique in that they can take those might-have-beens and craft them into stepping-stones. Although there's an infinite number of other might-have-been stepping-stones, each novel represents an act of formation beyond the capacity of most of us. Silk will always mark the first time that you put down a stepping-stone and said "Here's the start of a way across. No guarantee it will be safe. No guarantee it will hold you up. No guarantee you'll ever make it across. Start if you dare. I think it will be worth the risk." To me, so far it has, so much so that I've got all of your books on pre-order at Subterranean, and the published ones are in the first-floor bookcase (where everyone can see them) along with the other first-stringers listed above. Silk was the start of it.
Thank you, David, for taking a chance on getting your feet wet with me.
Also, a number of people have e-mailed me the following H. L. Mencken quote, which I shall pass along to you all, as it is obviously both apt and timely — As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron. Damn straight. G. W. is the realization of many an idiotic daydream. If only the rest of us could abandon our futile pipe-dreams of smart and compassionate democracy and accept Reality, we could all be celebrating alongside the happy mouthbreathers.
Condoleezza Rice as Dominar Bush's Secretary of State. Now that's a mindfrell. But it just goes to show you — even a black woman can ascend to the highest levels of power within the Republican Party, if only she's willing to let a white man stick his arm up her ass and make her lips move. Colin Powell, we hardly knew ye.
But let's not talk politics. It makes me feel so dirty.
Read my Bookslut.com interview, instead, unless you already have.
Last night, we cooked a big pot of red beans with andouille sausage, then I started Ratchet and Clank: Up Your Arsenal. When we went to bed, Spooky read me The Circle of Cats by Charles De Lint, with illustrations by Charles Vess, which we'd picked up from the Dreamhaven folks at Fiddler's Green.