Tags: nareth nishi


Your embrace, it was all that I feared...

Yesterday went pretty much as expected. There are too few of the right sorts of surprises these days. Though, given the frequency of the wrong sort of surprises there for a while, this condition is much preferable. A sure sign of my advancing years, a preference for predictability over unannounced earthquakes. No, not a sign of advancing years. A sign of something else. Anyway, yes, we proofread Sirenia Digest front to back, "Scene in the Museum (1869)" and "Bradbury Weather," which I think took about four hours, all told. This morning, subscribers ought to have #21 waiting in their inboxes. If you are a subscriber and don't yet have it, just email Spooky at crk_books(at)yahoo(dot)com, and she'll straighten things out ASAP. If you're not a subscriber, well, what are you waiting for?

Jada, whom I've not seen since May 2003 (we were practically inseparable from 1978-1992) is planning to visit in November. I warned her what a complete, genuine recluse I have become, but she says not to worry.

With SD #21 out, and the story for Clarkesworld done, I'm afraid I've reached that point where I actually have to begin work on Joey Lafaye, the next novel. Not today, and not tomorrow, but soon. Certainly within the next two weeks. In my spiral-bound notebook is a page of notes dated 7/27/06, the last time that I seriously sat down and tried to begin work on Joey LaFaye. We were in the little house in Rhode Island. That was the day before I got the news that a warehouse blunder had put all my novels out of print. I thought then I very probably would never write another novel. Thirteen months later, all the novels are back in print from Roc, or they soon will be, and I have a contract for Joey Lafaye and for another novel after that. Which just shows to go you. But, in the last thirteen months, I've hardly thought about Joey Lafaye, and now the time has come that I have to do so. Likely, it will be set not in New England, as originally planned, but here in Georgia. Likely, it will be set in the late 1970s or early 1980s. It will be only peripherally connected with the other novels. It's about a carnival, in part. It's about a lot of things.

Last night, a great deal of Second Life, continuing the peculiar tale of Professor Nareth E. Nishi in the steampunk milieu of New Babbage. Orphans were saved, for a time, from a mysterious league of Freemasons, with the help of Miss Artimisia Paine and an eighteen-foot tall robot. And there was lots of "sciency" stuff I won't go into. I have fallen behind on Nareth's journal. Again. You sort of have to be there. The journal is never any better than footnotes. I'll try to do another entry today. And I need another appendix from Bellatrix Bracken.

And we watched The Hunger (1983) again last night, because that film never, ever stops being beautiful.

Okay. Must have more iced coffee, and more David Bowie, and I need to wash my hair.
Mars from Earth

These things you've never seen, never dreamed.

Yesterday, I did 1,282 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, which brought me to the end of the second section of the story, "The Survivor." I'm actually considering placing a sort of disclaimer at the front of this book, something like this —

WARNING! This is strictly a work of fiction, and therefore should be regarded as fantasy, not an attempt to forecast some possible human future. The events in this novel are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to any actual future is purely coincidental. It was the sole intent of the author to write a story, a "ripping good space yarn," something fun and thoughtful and exciting about highly evolved dinosaurs inhabiting volcanic caverns on Mars — not to play Nostradamus. Take note: the author could not care less about mankind's future. If this is not the sort of book you're looking for, then you should stop NOW while there's still time. No, really. Oh, and all that stuff you've heard about "the Singularity" and ">H," that particular fantasy will not be found anywhere herein. Apologies. — CRK

Or maybe it'll just say something to the effect that I'm intentionally writing a novella that would be perfectly at home in the pages of a mid-20th Century pulp magazine. Let the critics sit and spin and write their own gorramn books. Thank you, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Thank you, Ray Bradbury.

The baby robins in the holly bush below the kitchen window fledged yesterday. There was a bit of a kerfuffle when a male cardinal tried to move in before the last robin chick was out. Spooky snagged a photo (behind the cut):

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A very good walk through Freedom Park just after nightfall. There were lots of bats. Back home, my Second Life was occupied largely with real-estate speculation in New Babbage, as I'm looking to buy a couple of parcels of land so that I can begin building Hawkins' Palaeozoic Museum. I am envisioning a great glass and steel structure, not unlike the Crystal Palace. The second parcel will, I hope, become Jules Verne Park, because even Babbage needs green space. Sir Arthur and his accountant, Mr. Swindlehurst, showed me some of the ins and outs of owning land in SL. Now, I just have to find the right lots and get my virtual finances in order. Oh, and for them what might care, here's the link to Professor Nareth E. Nishi's journal, the writing of which is becoming another minor obsession of mine.

Late, we watched another episode of Firefly ("Shindig"). Then, of course, it was time for my nightly dance with Monsieur Insomnia. He had me up until about 4:30 a.m. But, in the end, two Ambien (20 mg) bought me six and a half hours sleep. Boy howdy.

Platypus says it's time to go. I am helpless to resist.

We're all Neo here.

A quick message from the metaverse. If any Second Lifers out there are brave enough or interested enough, I'll be dancing live tonight, starting in just a little bit now and going until 2 a.m. EST, at Club insureXtion, which moved today to a new location in Bro City. Hard Rock Center. Sign in and if you can't find it via search, just IM me and I'll send you a landmark so you can teleport in.

Your's truly,
Nareth Nishi (me)