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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Much cooler weather today, after that storm front. Mostly sunny, but our high was only 71˚F. Currently, it's 67˚F. No, this is not normal.

A much more productive day today. A lot more work on the ms. for the new edition of From Weird and Distant Shores. This is one of those things I went into under the delusion it would be a day or two of worth. WRONG, Kiernan. If I really push, I'll finish the big stuff tomorrow and should be able to send it to Subterranean Press on Monday. If I really push. Shoulder to the wheel and all that rubbish. I'm not really reading the stories. The oldest are from 1993, and the youngest is from 2001, so we're talking stuff I wrote twenty to twenty-eight years ago. If I start reading these stories, I will being rewriting these stories, which would not on require time I cannot spend, it would be disingenuous. The idea here is to offer readers a new edition of a book that has been out of print for two decades, not a revision of that book. By the way, June 2023 will mark the thirtieth anniversary of my first fiction sale, and I count that as the beginning of my career. So, a year and a half to go.

I did some work on the cave matrix and finished one of the most recent batches (from those nine bags that arrived on the 21st). It was a pretty barren batch. One tiny snake vertebrae, a couple of fragments of bat jaws, a few other bone fragments.

At 7 a.m. this morning, trying to wake up enough to work, I did a grim bit of math. As of today, Kathryn and I have been back in Birmingham 1,078 days (that includes today). And 441 of those days, a full 40.9% of those 1,078 days, fall after my COVID-19 self-isolation began on March 15th, 2020. During that time, as you know if you follow this blog, I have hardly left the house. On more than one occasion, I have gone over a month at a time without stepping out the door. Yes, I likely am an extreme case. But Kathryn and both got our second injections of the Pfizer vaccine on April 24th, and I'm no longer afraid of going out. There's no longer any significant danger of either of us catching the virus, even if Alabama does fall next to last when you rank US states and territories by the percentage of people fully vaccinated (only 29.2%; Rhode Island, on the other hand, is at #5, with 51.2% fully vaccinated). At this point, it's habit keeping me indoors. Sheer fucking inertia. But I am sick of it, and it's going to stop.

Oh, Kathryn says she's gonna start our eBay auctions up again this coming week, so keep an eye out for hard to find CRK books. I'll post links here, we usual.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast




1:29 p.m.

Hot again today. With the heat index, we made it to 101˚F. I went out back about 6 p.m., and it was still very hot. Currently, it's 84˚F, with the heat index.

Grim shit, everywhere I turn my head.

And insanity.

Anyway....stuff I posted on Facebook today:

“Loneliness is a part of writing, isn’t it?” —Jean Rhys

~ and ~

Apparently it is becoming commonplace to refer to me as a "polymath." I suppose that I am flattered.

~ and ~

In 2020, our civilization has reached a point where you depend on science for, essentially, everything: the internet, medicine, entertainment, IT, food production, monetary currency, automobiles, water, energy sources, national defense, communication, travel, and the very fabric in your clothing and the materials used in the construction of buildings. But. Now you will not listen to scientists who say simply wear a lightweight cloth or paper mask to save your lives and the lives of others (and the economy and our way of life)? Your world would not exist without the fruits of scientific research, and if you fail to listen, it may not exist as you know it for very much longer. You don't get to pick and choose, America. Science is a package deal. You're either in or out. And you no longer realistically have the choice to opt out.

I all but forgot to eat today. I had half a peanut butter sandwich and a banana.

Later,
Aunt Beast




5:41 p.m.

Sunny today and warmer. I could have my office window open all day. It's still open. We made it to 77˚F today, and it's now 56˚F.

I woke up at 5 a.m. with my stomach in an uproar, and I was awake until after six, when I finally got back to sleep and...well, my nightmares, you can read the books, right? I ain't giving it away. Well, not usually.

I needed a day away from the new story, so I was going to spend it on the CEM for The Tindalos Asset, but a few pages into Chapter One I realized the publisher had used the wrong version of the manuscript, so...everyone has to start over. But I am promised it will be fixed, and hopefully we won't lose that wonderful 10.13.20 release date. But when I get the next version of the CEM, it'll have to spend days in the quarantine box, just like the last set did. I can only do what I can do in this train wreck of a year.

But I can do at least that much. And what I can do is not fuck up this new story or the next new story. I can refuse to fall back into that rut of stillness and silence. I can do that.

Tomorrow I have the teledoc. Because it's the future, right? And Friday I talk with my agent (I've begged off twice now). Oh, and there was a good audiobook offer today that I'll reveal when I'm told I can.

Spooky made cupcakes. And not any of those crappy mix-in-a-box, sticky-ass things, but homemade-from-scratch cupcakes, which are great with Nutella. Right now, though, she's groovin' to the oldies with the Sad Kids Club.

----

As of tonight, the ADPH has confirmed 5,327 cases of Covid-19 in Alabama, with 700 of those in Jefferson County and 274 in Shelby County. Oh, and Madam Governor Kay Ivey pleasantly surprised me today, by standing up to Georgia and Florida and the rest of the fools who think it's safe to reopen the economy. It'll be safe when the science says it's safe.

Later,
Aunt Beast




4:52 p.m.

Thunder last night. Thunderstorms all day and all night tonight. Currently, it's 58˚F, and we still have a flash flood watch.

Tonight I can say that today I wrote 1,179 words on a new piece for Sirenia Digest, which I'm calling "The Great Bloody and Bruised Veil of the World." It's a start. Tonight is the first time I've been able to report a daily word count since March 6th, the day that I finished The Cerulean Alphabet. That's how bad things have been. Afterwards, I began rereading Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach trilogy and made it through chapter one of Annihilation.

Lots of things I could say, like how I had half a can of deviled ham for dinner, with five olives, or how I finally know what it means to be claustrophobic, or how there's black mold taking root in this building, but who really cares, so...I'll just move along to the nightly plague report.

As of this evening, the ADPH has confirmed 4,903 cases of Covid-19 in the state of Alabama, with 682 cases in Jefferson County and 269 cases in Shelby County.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast




7:58 a.m.

Cooler again today. Currently, it's 42˚F.

Kathryn has a cold, and I seem to be catching it.

Today was Charlemagne Records' last day. I mentioned the imminent demise of Charlemagne back on December 4th, when Kathryn told me, the 42-year-old Five Points South record shop I first visited in 1978, when I was still in high school. This afternoon, Kathryn and I stopped by, because I'd have regretted not going. She got an old Burl Ives record. I got a poster that was tacked to the counter beneath the cash register. As I was leaving the shop, the Rufus Wainwright cover of "Hallelujah" started playing, and I am not ashamed to say that I cried.

Piece by piece....

Tonight...well, actually, everything sorta went to shit after Charlemagne (how often have historians said that?), starting with Publix not having a pecan pie. Oh, but Fresh Market had one of the worst pecan pies I've ever tried to eat! What the fuck is wrong with the world when you can't find a goddamn pecan pie in Alabama? Anyway, I came home and watched a documentary about the demise of Egypt's Old Kingdom and another about Hannibal's route through the Alps.

You know, I'm gonna leave out the crappy stuff. Who cares.

Tonight, we watched Wes Andersen's The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), which Spooky and I usually watch at Christmas. The Tenenbaums came late this year.

It wasn't such a bad year, 2019. I've sure as hell had far worse recently. If nothing else, it was probably my most productive year, as an author, in a while. I wrote eleven new short stories for Sirenia Digest, plus three very long Dancy Flammarion stories for Subterranean Press, and I wrote most of The Tindalos Asset, which I'd been working on since late 2017.

I'll say more about 2019 tomorrow, unless I feel too bad to sit at the computer, in which case I won't. And Sirenia Digest subscribers should have the new issue by now.

See You Next Year,
CRK




1:42 p.m., Charlemagne Records (1977-2019)

Another day with both rain and sunshine and much more humid, cooler weather. Currently, it's 73˚F.

Today I began the second Dancy Flammarion story, "The Lady in the House of Crowning Glory," which may also get the parenthetical subtitle "(2018)." It's a far more ambitious story that "Dreams of a Poor Wayfaring Stranger." And because of that, even though I wrote 1,425 words on the story today, I'm pretty sure that I had a mediocre writing day or worse. I won't know until at least tomorrow when I look at the pages again. And I don't have time or inclination to start over. Once upon a time, I was pretty good about those false starts and about starting over. Those days are past, and I don't think we will ever see them again.

This afternoon, I watched documentaries on the space shuttles and pike fishing. Tonight, we watched Scott Cooper's superb Hostiles (2018).

Later,
CRK




12:35 a.m.

Overcast all day, but no rain. Currently, it's 75˚F.

I woke to find the black mood was still with me, and by early afternoon it had reached a fever pitch. I tried to drown it out with music, but music only goes so far.

I lay on the air mattress and watched documentaries about giant Tasmanian crayfish and the Gemini space program and the bombing of Hiroshima. Spooky got pizza for dinner. On and on and on.

---

From Facebook today ~

Think of New England as a Skinner box. Think of me as a white rat. Or maybe Pavlov would work better in this instance. But after a decade of frigid, wet summers, I have been rendered entirely unable to comfortably, calmly endure even a single rainy day, even when I am in Birmingham, Alabama and we haven't seen rain in weeks. Cloudy, rainy days, which I used to enjoy, are now a smothering wet towel across my face, all claustrophobia and anxiety.

~ and ~

I am not by nature or passion any sort of an artist. I'm a scientist who was finally left with no other path but art if I were to avoid starvation and homelessness. Writing allowed me to trade utter destitution for mere perpetual poverty. (No, I won't fucking elaborate.)

---

I'm going the fuck to bed, but you need to look at the current eBay auctions. Please. Thank you.

Oh, and don't say I didn't work. I was perfectly civil in a whole bunch of email. Here, have some goddamn octopuses.

Later,
CRK




6:24 p.m.

Not a bad birthday, all in all. I mean, if I had to fucking have one.

A very hot day. 96˚F, with the heat index at 100˚F. There were some clouds, but not a hint a rain, and it's getting dry around here.

Today, I spent another three hours on a ~300 word overview of the biostratigraphy, lithostratigraphy, and chronostratigraphy of the Demopolis Chalk. Consider that I usually need only about an hour to write ~1,000 words of solid finished prose, and that'll tell you how, for me, writing fiction differs from working on a scientific paper. Anyway, tomorrow I go back to fiction. I think.

Spooky made me a delightful birthday dinner of potatoes and mushrooms and chicken, all slow-cooked in Dreamland sauce, plus a cake and ice cream. So, no complaints from me. Except the whole being fifty-five part. Tonight, we watched the "making of Game of Thrones" documentary on HBO.

I stop and consider that I was alive, if still in utero, when JFK died. I've been having these moments all day long.

Later Taters,
CRK




10:05 p.m.

The cough was almost gone, and then it came roaring back last night. I'm woozy and sore, and I can hardly talk, and tomorrow I have to be at the UA Museum in Tuscaloosa.

We spent the day out, mostly. It was sunny, mostly. I went to Alabama Outdoors in Homewood looking for a new field hat. I went to Reed Books downtown to find a copy of Absalom! Absalom!. I found a copy of the Disney recording of Peter and the Wolf, which was my favorite record in the world about 1967 or so. Used to scare the shit out of me. I'd have bought that copy today, but it was very scratched up.

Today, Selwyn turned seven.

“A story should be a finished work before it is shown. And after that, I will not allow anyone to change anything, and I will not change anything on anyone’s advice. ‘Here is my story. It’s a finished story. Take it or leave it!’ ” ~ Katherine Anne Porter (A quote I try to live by.)

Later,
CRK




2:12 p.m.