Dear Sweet Filthy World

Sunny again today, but still with some clouds. Our high was, and presently is (so our high so far), 87˚F, with the heat index at 92˚F.

I woke at six this morning, which was earlier than I'd intended. But what the fuck, I'd gotten to sleep by midnight, so I figured I'd get up, have some breakfast, then get to work. And, instead, I fell the fuck back to sleep and woke at 8 a.m. Because I am a creature of excruciating habit, or excruciatingly a creature of habit, this threw the whole day into a less than productive tailspin. I finally gave up and played Guild Wars 2 and tried not the think about the words I did not get written today.

What am I writing? Fuck it, I'll tell you. The novel is called The Night Watchers, and it is essentially a new and more supernatural incarnation of the novel that would have been Interstate Love Song (based on the short-story of the same title). I really like it, all of it that's in my head, and that's a lot of it. If I can quit fucking around, it could be done by the end of the summer. The print and ebook versions will be published by Subterranean Press, and hopefully there will be an audiobook. Likely there will. It's set mostly in and around north-central Alabama, but spans many, many decades. The title is borrowed from Peter Straub's Ghost Story, one of my favorite books of all time, ever.

But you knew that about me and Ghost Story. I mean, if you are one of those Constant Readers.

But I gotta admit, balancing the fiction, no matter how much I like the novel at hand, with the sudden and marvelous paleontology opportunities is a challenge. But. Fiction keeps the rent paid and the lights on and food on the table. Paleontology just, you know, makes me feel like I'm doing what I was put on earth to do. And it's all sort of ironic. For me - as frustrating as I might find it, as much as I would usually rather be doing something else - writing is easy as pie. On the other hand, paleontology is fucking hard work – and I'm not talking about physically demanding fieldwork and fossil preparation. I'm talking about the intellectual rigor, discipline, and plain ol' smarts involved. So, I'm going to be busting my butt to do the fairly easy thing that pays the bills to earn the luxury of busting my butt to do the very hard thing that pays not one red cent. Irony. But, that said, I am just grateful for both opportunities, at this point in my life and at this point in history.

By the way, SubPress has announced Vile Affections (and the accompanying chapbook Cambrian Tales), and you may see the cover. In fact, you can now place preorders! Right here. Note: Only those who bought the signed numbered edition of Comes a Pale Rider may preorder the signed numbered edition of Vile Affections at this time. Anyone may preorder the trade hardcover.

And here's some crap I posted today to Twitter and Facebook:

I'm just waiting for one of these anti-COVID vaccine yahoos to realize that, in effect, every time they use any medication they are – in the eyes of pharmaceutical companies and medical science – essentially guinea pigs or lab rats or Rhesus monkeys, FDA approval or no.

~ and ~

Fact: When you are so afraid that you can only win an election when fewer people vote, so you try to make it harder and harder for folks to vote, especially those whom you suspect won't vote for you, you've failed democracy.

~ and this, which someone else said and which I retweeted ~

Let's perfectly clear...Democrats do not want to de-fund the police. Dems want to demilitarize and de-brutalize the police.

I leave you with my level 80 holosmith (an elite engineering specialization), Mandy J. Wolowitz (née Hansen), at Timberline Falls. Yes, she has a lightsaber.

Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast




3:50 p.m.

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I did not actually consciously decide to put the journal on hiatus. It just happened. I could not image to continue recording that "Today I did nor write" over and over and over.

Oh, I did not write today. (rim shot, laugh track)

I also did not intend to succeed at "self isolating." But I have. Since October 9th, when I went about two miles from home for a doctor's appointment, I have been out of doors for ~5 minutes total. I shit you not. I think I have stepped out the door four times. Once I went to the bottom of the stairs. Mostly, someone from McWane brings me something to work on and I open the door to retrieve it (and put it in a quarantine box for a week). Before Covid-19, I was already halfway to Howard Hughes. This virus has pushed me into full on shut in. And for most of this time, I have been unable to write.

But between December 15th and 22nd, I wrote two vignettes for two issues of Sirenia Digest, my first successful attempts at fiction writing since April, and I was able to get two new issues out to subscribers, Nos. 178 and 179 (November and December). I was 7 months behind. Now I am only six. The plan is to produce, at the very least, two vignettes a month for two issues a month until I am caught up, six months from now. I am immensely grateful to everyone who has stuck with me. Thank you. I will make good on this.

Of course, there's a mountain of work not related to the digest, and I have to try and write that, too.

I had only one book actually released this year, The Tindalos Asset from Tor.com, though the coming reissues of Alabaster and the new Dancy collection Comes a Pale Rider will both carry 2020 publication dates.

I stepped outside today for about 30 seconds, as I was determined to breathe fresh air on this last day of this most evil year of my life. Yes, 2020, take a bow. You beat out 2005 and 1995 and 1992 and 1989. You win.

I wish for you all a happy and healthful New Year. Biden won. We will get through this nightmare. We have to. We have a civilization to repair.

Later Taters (No, really),
Aunt Beast




Round about 7 p.m. (Portrait of 2020)

Sunny today. And hot. Spooky says the heat index went over 100˚F.

I finished Angela Carter's The Magic Toyshop today and tomorrow I will begin Jeff VanderMeer's Borne.

Today's film was Intersteller, which remains on my very short list of very good science-fiction films that (mostly) get their science right.

Tuna casserole and green peas for dinner.

I'm not writing about how the evening's are all Second Life. Just take that for granted. It's what happens in the evening.

Here are Spooky's shops again (and you really ought to have a look and buy something, because Covid has yet to make shit free):

Threadless: https://dreamingsquiddesigns.threadless.com/

Redbubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/dreamingsquid/shop

Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/shop/DreamingSquid

AND ALSO: we are auctioning one and only one copy of the ARC of Comes a Pale Rider, the forthcoming Dancy collection. You can bid on it by following this link. Thank you.

Later,
Aunt Beast




2:09 p.m.

Another day there's really not much to be said for.

It could have been worse.

Easily.

And Comes a Pale Rider received a starred review in Publishers Weekly:

Albino demon hunter Dancy Flammarion, who last appeared in the graphic novel Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird, cuts a righteous swath across the American South guided by a skeletal, four-headed angel in this spectacular collection of five weird tales from Stoker Award winner Kiernan. Kiernan gets the collection off to a delightfully offbeat start with “Bus Fare,” in which Dancy trades first riddles then blows with a werewolf, and “Dancy vs. the Pterosaur,” in which she encounters the concept of evolution and promptly dismisses it as heretical. “Dreams of a Poor Wayfaring Stranger,” a series of vignettes that artfully poke holes into the continuity of Dancy’s universe, and standout “Tupelo,” an unsettling, hypnotic look at what Dancy’s life might be like if the supernatural weren’t real after all, both explore eerier territory. “Requiem” brings the collection to a satisfying and unexpectedly poignant close, as a witch who once threatened Dancy’s life seeks out the now-retired Dancy and the pair reach an unlikely understanding. Readers won’t have to be familiar with Kiernan’s earlier works to fall in love with her scrappy, mildly unhinged heroine or the masterful way in which she places charm and chills side by side. Dancy deserves a wide fan base. Agent: Merrilee Heifetz, Writers House. (Nov.)

So, there was that.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast




6:31 p.m.

Sunny today, with a thunderstorm in the afternoon, then sunny again. Our high was 95˚F, with the heat index, just before the thunderstorm started. Currently, it's 75˚F.

Kathryn and I made it all the way through the corrections to the Comes a Pale Rider galleys. And you might wanna preorder soon, because my SubPress books often sell out well in advance of publication. Anyway, it was relatively painless, except reading back over my long afterword, which, among other things, recounts the sordid, infuriating mess of what happened with me and Dancy and Dark Horse Comics. Yes, at last it can be told. But you gotta buy the book.

I finished William Kennedy's Billy Phelan's Greatest Game.

Oh, and there was a ton of email, include exchanges with Bill Schafer, Jonathan Strahan, Paula Guran, Steve Jones, and Writers House.

I also read through the very long safety protocol manual we got in advance of the reopening of McWane next month. It's exacting. I'm pretty sure there won't be a safe microbe in the joint.

I forgot to mention Kathryn made black-eyed peas and salt pork yesterday. We had it with turnip greens and cornbread. Tonight we had it with mac and cheese and cornbread. And then we gave Devs another try. It does get quite a bit better, but there are still, I think, pacing issues. There's taking the time you need and then there's taking more time than you need.

Later,
Aunt Beast




(9:45 a.m.)

At least it didn't rain today. It was supposed to, but it didn't. So, there's that. Our high with heat index was 89˚F. Currently, it's 78˚F. Kathryn said she heard a couple of cicadas today, but I didn't.

I spent half the day proofreading "Untitled Psychiatrist #4" and putting together Sirenia Digest 171, which I then sent to Gordon, who made PDFs, which Kathryn just sent to all the subscribers. I'm already one day off the schedule, based on what I posted on June 2nd. But I'll be dealing with the Comes a Pale Rider galleys tomorrow. By the way, this is the first time I've finished a story since I finished "The Great Bloody and Bruised Veil of the World" on April 24th.

But the good news is it looks like I'll be able to return to the lab at McWane early in July. It will have been almost four months, four months of lost work. Winifred won't remember what I look like.

I'm on an almost complete news blackout. Only local. Nothing national or international for the foreseeable future. I have to work. And keep my wits about me. Period.

Tonight we finished Mrs. America, which really was astounding. But then we began Alex Garland's Devs, which really was, so far, ho-hum as fuck.

Later,
Aunt Beast




6:37 p.m.

I think I was only pretending to be a recluse before.

A warm and partly cloudy day. We made it to 89˚F, and it is currently 79˚F. It's good weather.

And I got back to writing. I did 1,073 words on "Untitled Psychiatrist #4." Which, by the way, will appear in Sirenia Digest No. 171 (April). I hope to finish the piece tomorrow. I have a set a sorta crazy schedule for myself the next two weeks (which is my way of trying not to go crazy): Get SD 171 out to subscribers by Wednesday evening. Then deal with the errata/galleys for Comes a Pale Rider, the next Dancy collection, for Subterranean Press (so they can get the ARCs printed). Then deal with the electronic galleys to The Tindalos Asset, and I have to have that stuff back to Tor.com on the 8th. And then write a second next piece of fiction this month and get SD 172 (May) out by – deep breath – the 13th or 14th.

Mostly, I'm just working really hard at ignoring the insanity outside these windows and walls.

Tonight, we started watching Mrs. America on Hulu, and it's extremely good.

Best,
Aunt Beast




5:48 p.m. (I think I know exactly how this Lego brick feels.)

Mostly sunny today. We reached 87˚F. Currently, it's 76˚F, with the heat index at 78˚F.

I only slept about five hours last night, maybe less.

I almost wrote today.

But I woke to the news that Jada's kid sister, Sheri Jo, died on Thursday. Sheri was only a few months younger than me. We went to high school together in Leeds. When Jada and I were married (1983-1992), Sheri was my sister-in-law, of course, but I'd not seen her since, probably, at least 1989. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer only three weeks ago. Like me, Sheri was born in 1964.

And after that news, the whole day just kinda shut down.

I'm still waiting on the final CEM for The Tindalos Asset from Tor.com. It will hopefully come soon, and meanwhile I have the galleys for Comes a Pale Rider to go through.

Only ten days until my 56th birthday.

Later,
Aunt Beast




5:38 p.m.

Today was a nasty, grody, wet excuse for a day. And look at that. LiveJournal can't spell grody. Quelle surprise. Anyway, it's currently 48˚F.

Today, I did another 1,084 words on "Seven Dreams," which will probably get a new title. Oh, and I got a look at the initial layout of Comes a Pale Rider, with Ted's artwork in place.

Tonight, Spooky made hamburger steaks with pierogi and brussel sprouts. And then we watched Zach Lipovsky and Adam B. Stein's Freaks (2018), a very pleasant surprise of a film. We followed it with Tara Wood's Quentin Tarantino documentary (2019), and that was very good, too.

Later,
CRK




1:23 p.m.

Sunny today, until it turned cloudy. Currently, it's 62˚F.

Today, I wrote 1,069 words and finished "Mercy Brown." And I signed the rest of the signature sheets for Comes a Pale Rider and began the signature sheets for Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 3. "Mercy Brown" will be featured in October's issue of Sirenia Digest (#166).

Also, I finished my rereading of The Shining and began Larry McMurtry's The Last Kind Words Saloon. Reading The Shining (from the same copy of the book I first read, by the way, way back in either 1981 or 1982), it's a very frustrating thing. Were I to list the six greatest haunted house stories ever, they would be (unranked) The Haunting of Hill House, The Turn of Screw, House of Leaves, The House Next Door, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and The Shining. I think it's that good. But I also think it might be the best novel Stephen King has ever written, and it was published in 1977. There are places where it stumbles a little. It doesn't know that less is usually more and that sometimes we should neither tell nor show, but merely suggest. And it's a shame that it breaks the splendid claustrophobia of the Overlook to get Dick Hallorann from Florida to Colorado (though I adore the character of Dick Hallorann). Too often the prose tumbles into histrionics. But, all these things aside, it's a really fucking good book.*

Good RP tonight, so thank you, Melissa.

Maybe tonight I will sleep.

Later Taters,
CRK

* I have never written a novel as good as The Shining.




11:01 p.m.