And then there are these points along the continuum, when It All comes tumbling down on me at once. Or, at least, that's the way it seems. I'm literally in the middle of proofreading the galleys for Murder of Angels, and my editor at Roc calls yesterday to tell me the ARCs (advance reading copies) for MoA are in a month early. This means that the list of reviewers I was supposed to have another month to put together needs to be in NYC yesterday. And I also have to go over "Waycross" again (there are always things that can be corrected), and then send it to Steve Jones for The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror #15, along with an updated biography and a paragraph about the writing of the story. And I need to contact my publicist about those ARCs and the list of reviewers. And call my NYC agent. And last night I get mock-ups for the cover of The Dry Salvages, and I need to get back to Bill Scahfer with my thoughts on those. And he also needs all the Dancy stories so far, so he can begin to get a feel for that project, the collection of Dancy Flammarion stories. And, really, all of these things need to be dealt with today, when I need to be reading chapters Seven and Eight of Murder of Angels, sans distractions and that nagging sense that I ought to be doing something else instead.
And I'm ever so slightly more depressed than usual, and I think it's the result of rereading Murder of Angels, and all I really want to do is go back to bed and hide in the twists and turns of my ridiculous nightmares.
So, all these things I have to try to do today and tonight. Poppy's coming into town tomorrow, to do a signing at OutWrite Books on Piedmont, and Spooky and I are picking her up at the airport. If I'm lucky, we'll actually have a little time to talk, just to catch up. But I'm not feeling particularly lucky. Regardless, no work will get done tomorrow.
Everything, all at once.
And, on top of that, circumstances beyond my control are conspiring to make it highly desirable (if not actually necessary) to vacate Atlanta for the weekend, so I might lose Saturday and Sunday, as well. I'd planned to finish with MoA on Saturday and then take Sunday off, before beginning "Alabaster" on Monday.
And there hasn't been time to work on updates for Nebari.net or to put Llar'en's neat birthday-clock thingy up on my website or anything of that sort. Or, if there has been the time, there's been no energy or motivation to spare after the hours and hours of reading MoA. I managed to lie on the floor and watch television last night, when I'd have preferred to have been doing something slightly more constructive. I watched Monster Garage and three episodes of The Sopranos.
Blah, blah, blah.
These are not your problems.
I thought that my ruminations on blogs and privacy, or, rather, on blogs and exhibitionism/voyeurism, would provoke more commentary over at the greygirlbeast annex. We always want to believe that our insights are insightful, and that our eurekas aren't old news, even when they are. Or is that only me?
Time to put this thing to bed (too bad I can't go with it), and get on with this trainwreck of a day.
And I'm ever so slightly more depressed than usual, and I think it's the result of rereading Murder of Angels, and all I really want to do is go back to bed and hide in the twists and turns of my ridiculous nightmares.
So, all these things I have to try to do today and tonight. Poppy's coming into town tomorrow, to do a signing at OutWrite Books on Piedmont, and Spooky and I are picking her up at the airport. If I'm lucky, we'll actually have a little time to talk, just to catch up. But I'm not feeling particularly lucky. Regardless, no work will get done tomorrow.
Everything, all at once.
And, on top of that, circumstances beyond my control are conspiring to make it highly desirable (if not actually necessary) to vacate Atlanta for the weekend, so I might lose Saturday and Sunday, as well. I'd planned to finish with MoA on Saturday and then take Sunday off, before beginning "Alabaster" on Monday.
And there hasn't been time to work on updates for Nebari.net or to put Llar'en's neat birthday-clock thingy up on my website or anything of that sort. Or, if there has been the time, there's been no energy or motivation to spare after the hours and hours of reading MoA. I managed to lie on the floor and watch television last night, when I'd have preferred to have been doing something slightly more constructive. I watched Monster Garage and three episodes of The Sopranos.
Blah, blah, blah.
These are not your problems.
I thought that my ruminations on blogs and privacy, or, rather, on blogs and exhibitionism/voyeurism, would provoke more commentary over at the greygirlbeast annex. We always want to believe that our insights are insightful, and that our eurekas aren't old news, even when they are. Or is that only me?
Time to put this thing to bed (too bad I can't go with it), and get on with this trainwreck of a day.
- Current Mood:
overwhelmed - Current Music:David Bowie, "No Control"
Comments
Then she recently wrote about her dead babies.
She became pregnant a few months ago, got all excited, baby would be due at Christmas. Then she went to the doctor (I don't know which doctor; I'm a phallic-centered male, sometimes unfortunately), who informed her that she had dead twins in her womb. And that she would have to have them removed about a week later.
I read this while checking e-mail at work. Ever try getting through a day after reading about dead twins in someone's womb? It's not the most difficult thing that's ever been done, nor the most difficult thing I've ever done at work (that would be trying to hold a job while suffering an extended nervous breakdown 10 years ago), but it wasn't easy. I felt shell-shocked.
Our insights are rarely unique. There's 5 billion of us on this planet, with about 300 million of us raised in this country. There's only so many permutations of events and insights related to the events that can be experienced. What makes us unique is the methods that we use to express those insights, and the results of those methods.
I recently deleted my old live journal account and made the new one friends only, but I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse. There are things I want to say about my relationships (and several of those people are on my friend's page), my sex life, my thoughts on art, etc., but I never know what I should and should not say.
If I want to talk about the bad things that have happened to me, I don't want people to respond in a sort of virtual pity party. If I want to talk about my sex life there are people who will get upset/offended.
I guess I really don't have anything construct to say about this after all, other than you are not the only one thinking about it. I just hate forums, so I responded here.
Though as much as I am conflicted about what I can and cannot say in my live journal, I really enjoy reading other people's journals, especially when they are of a deeply honest and personal nature.
As do I. The personal journal is handwritten. I've kept a personal journal since 1990, and only began the blog late in 2001. Most of what goes into the handwritten journal is stuff I'd never even consider posting online.
Though as much as I am conflicted about what I can and cannot say in my live journal, I really enjoy reading other people's journals, especially when they are of a deeply honest and personal nature.
I think we all do, for the same reasons we enjoy watching trashy reality television (even if we don't admit we watch trashy reality television) - the voyuer in almost all of us.
Particularly if you are a private person with regards to your own life, it can be difficult to judge where to draw the line, in order to keep parts of yourself away from the masses. I suspect that if, as with yourself, a lot of people read your journal, it could make you wonder who on earth these people are - are they 'friends'? Why are they interested in you? Do you mind them knowing the minutae of your life? Can you make them go away if they irritate you?
It's also a good way to find like-minded people, though, and I communicate via private emails with a number of people I've met through your forum (does it feel weird that people have formed friendships via your work?).
As for live journals, well, I use mine really to allow people I don't see very often to know what I'm up to, and to read what they're up to. I don't think I'd ever reveal too much about myself on it, and I certainly feel odd about talking about friends on it in case they don't want stuff posted there. My journal is exceedingly dull to 99.9% of the population, but it serves to keep me in touch. I have read a lot of opinions which argue that this is all egotistical - I don't feel that way, I feel it's just as egotistical as wittering about your day over the phone, and is cheaper. Of course, it is more permanent.
Your journal is actually very thought provoking a lot of the time, which is why I read it.
Which is why I think a good rule of thumb is never post anything to any part of the internet that you aren't comfortable with the Whole world reading. That's the world now and the future world, all your friends and enemies the people you don't know.
(does it feel weird that people have formed friendships via your work?).
Yes.
They will wait for you, you are too important for them to get rid of so I think everything will turn out fine.
If things aren't better then they havn't come to an end yet. So there is always more to look foreward to.
Sorry you're so busy. Last time a friend told me she was busy, I started singing "A Spoonful of Sugar" to her over the phone, which is another thing you can't do online, although it's probably just as well . . .
"For every job that must be done, there's an element of fun. Find the fun and . . . snap! The job's a game! And every task you undertake becomes a piece of cake . . . a lark, a spree, it's very clear to see . . ."
That's just sick...and not in a good way, either.
Now, now. I know somewhere under that silly carapace of yours there's a squishy creature that knows all of these dreadful activities are merely technicolour candies in a world of cuddly, giggling satyrs and musical wine . . .
All right, I'll stop.
No, no. Go on. I was just charging my pulse rifle...