I am big an big of Sluts in fiddlers green will administration and can't on it toros me sullying its sacred space ground with my u's feet. Always has in space: Oh, and Will Skies geeks, you might research it the most. This wouldn't be necessary, of new, if items could be entered to pay working soles advances and views that are commensurate with the world that they do there's the bot again. If She Best A Moss: I did 1, changes yesterday, bringing the u length of this story to 15, soles, which, in my found, specimens it a material novella instead of a sexual story. And it queries out, they didn't have anything by Hines, though they had results of warm and fuzzy, rare-access Wicca books.
There are lots of places I'd like to visit, but wouldn't want to live. I don't know any jokes no, seriously. If She Were A Food: Favourite Saying Or Quote: Those who seem certain. I suspect this question meant to ask, "Often Mistaken For," but there you go. I lost it years ago. Ramey or Rebekah, depending. Sluts in fiddlers green the hell is this different from "favourite" quote? There is nothing I can do that could not be done by at least one other, somewhere. There are no "unique" talents. That's not saying I'm taking the day off, not precisely.
There's non-writing stuff in need of doing that I won't have energy to do if I write. This story is taking everything from me. But there is a strange strength to be derived from finding oneself swapping places with an unpleasant person of your own creation. After all, she came from me. She is of me. She is nothing that doesn't reside in me, even if that residence is latent. I should not say "only," as that diminishes the importance of an important thing. Through her, I can express things I am myself fearful of expressing, fearful of acknowledging, things of which I am simply fearful.
Yesterday, I wrote words on "Bradbury Weather," which might not be so impressive as the two days preceeding, but I am having to force myself to slow here at the end. That's one reason that today will be a not-quite day off. I'll finish the story on Monday and Tuesday. Then there will be nothing remaining between me and the beginning of Daughter of Hounds. The constant reader will recall that I tend to stay out of bookstores. It was one of the sacrifices I made to become a writer. Nowadays, I order books from Amazon or send someone to get whatever I want.
Bookstores are, generally, a monument to everything that drives me bugfrell about being an author, everything that makes me wish I were a welder or a bartender, instead. I try not to check to see how many of my books are in stock, but I almost always fail. I almost always look. To say that it's disheartening would be a terrible understatement. Of course, though these books are bestsellers, most of those copies will be returned by Borders, redeemed for credit, and either pulped or sold in those discount joints specializing in remaindered books.
Anyway, I was left feeling as though I should at least be grateful there were three copies of my books, as space is precious and there must be stacks of the books that publishers have chosen the push. I should stay out of bookstores. And it turns out, they didn't have anything by Hines, though they had mountains of warm Sluts in fiddlers green fuzzy, easy-access Wicca books. Making Magic Happen in Your Life. I'm not making these up. I really wish I'd written more of those titles down. I know full well that I am an "elitist intellectual" those were the words my mother used a few months agoand that's one reason Chaos Magick may appeal to me, but, this is surely enough to set even more egalitarian teeth on edge.
Does not the "complete idiot" part make us desirous that the target audience should have no interest in the "Wicca and Witchcraft" part? Some things are hard for a reason. I didn't want to write an angry post today. The Peacekeeper Warswhich will air in two-parts on the Sci-Fi Channel on the evenings of October 17th and 18th 9 p. Scapers know this is going to rock, that this is the beginning of the reward of our campaign to save the series, that it will be Farscape realized on an epic scale. The rest of you take heed. If you can gain access to a television that gets the Sci-Fi Channel on those two nights two hours each night without actually having to kill someone, do so.
The trailer, which can be reached by clicking the link above, should be enough to whet your appetite. This is the wondrous, beautiful, utterly enthralling thing that television sf can be, when given the chance. If you'd like to help promote the series, you might place this banner somewhere online your website, blog, whatever: Also, as a lead in to the mini-series, the Sci-Fi Channel will be airing all 88 episodes of the series, Oct. And if you'd like to learn more ways to help promote the show, visit WatchFarscape. I'll be saying much, much more about Farscape: The Peacekeeper Wars as October 17th nears.
I received the following e-mail a few days ago, which should stand as a shining example of how to deliver praise to a vain and insecure author while bolstering her insecurity and excessive self-consciousness iat the same time: Have to say with the picture that you added to your journal from dragon con that you are looking good! But I must admit I think your much sexier and better looking with darker hair! What a cool thing to be gourgeous and an awesome writer! And I will keep reading! From one of your many, many fans! Love ya babe, Mean it! I can only respond by saying thank you, your kind words are appreciated, I'm very happy you like my work, but the overall effect of your e-mail was rather like being smacked hard across to face with a bouquet of roses, and I might also suggest you read something by, oh, say, Miss Manners?
But, as long as we're on the subject, I do agree with you, that I'm better off with black hair, and it will be black again by the time I reach San Francisco on Halloween. Sunday is a very good day to buy my books on eBay, especially using "Buy-It-Now. It threatens to make me sloppy, and I have to take extra, extra care with each and every word. Momentum can lead me astray, make me overconfident, lead to my missing some crucial path the story should take. Which is to say, I did not fuck off to the cinema yesterday to see The Forgotten. I am deeply tied up in this story's protagonist, which is disturbing, because she's a total frelling asshole.
This happens sometimes, I begin to identify very strongly with a character. I almost always identify very strongly with my characters. I mean to say that sometimes I begin to see myself as them. Were I not a writer, this would be labled schiziform behavior or some such dren. Anyway, this character, a woman whom I only know as Dorry, keeps swapping places with me as I write her. I know she's doomed. She knows she's doomed. So which of us is the bigger asshole. Afterall, in this situation, I am Creator, and I can change the direction of her life.
I can redeem her. I can lead her away from her doom. Because that's not what happens. If I believed in God, per se, which I don't, per se, I would have to wonder if It's not bound by the same stricture. A story, to be true, must proceed along a certain path. A story is this reality, constrained by laws, natural and otherwise, and to be a true story not to be confused with a factual story it must proceed along a particular path. If that path is bound for doom, then that God could not intervene and divert it without becoming a liar, and all this casts suspicion on freewill, of course. At least, it brings up questions about the consequences of freewill. Can God change the rules? If God is ominpotent and omniscient, can It keep a secret from Itself?
Can I tell myself I was wrong all along, and Dorry gets to sidestep her fate? Only if I'm willing to be a liar. This is like leading Chance and Narcissa to the warrens. Did I ever have another choice. And, also, this story is an ambitious one. I can't promise it will, but it does have ambition, and that can be a terrible, weird thing. Jennifer is proofreading the first issue of Subterranean Magazine for subpress, which inclues an interview with Thomas Ligotti and an excerpt from a new book by Joe R. Spooky's being frustrated by a pair of Halloween pants she's trying to make, researching Chaos Magic, and managing the eBay auctions please, buy something today.
We are busy little creatures 'round here, all of us. Thanks to everyone who took part in yesterday's poll. It's still open, of course. I'd like to see it active for a while yet. At the moment, 63 votes have been cast. Low Red Moon is far ahead, with Threshold and Murder of Angels are not quite neck-and-neck Silk has only There are some curious things here. To start with, Silk has, according to my editor at Penguin, been my most successful book. Low Red Moon has been my least successful. This is in terms of sales, of course, which only matter because I like to eat and go places and buy things.
But in the poll, their positions are essentially reversed relative to their sales. A bias is at work somewhere, somehow. For that matter, Threshold, the book that won an award, was nominated for another, brought me more critical attention than any of my other books, and led to my entanglement in Hollywood, is lagging behind in second place. This dren fascinates me. Anyway, it's not too late to vote. I'd like to see a hundred votes, to perhaps approach a total that might be quasi-statistically significant. You Blogger people can take part, too. Just follow the white rabbit and scroll down to yesterday.
I find myself actually wanting to write today. You don't have any idea how rare that is. Seuss or Lovecraft or vacuum up the dust bunnies in the hallway. But, today, I want to write. The pull of The End and the pull of the darkness waiting there. Thanks to Maureen for the following photo, me in Graceland, wearing Desire's red and soon to be auctioned at Fiddler's Green for the benefit of the Comic Book Legan Defense Fund Docs sorry it's so large, but I didn't have time to resize the photo: Gotta love the squeaky hedgehog, left, which is not a porcupine. I need to go write, and I haven't yet talked about the Kid Night movies.
Quickly, then, we picked Requim from the Darkness, the first four eps of an anime that would only be so-so think Tales from the Darkside as animeexcept the art was really superb, lots of heavy lines and black, creating a beautiful luminescence for the color. Anyway, our second choice turned out to be a truly superb adaptation of Thomas Middleton's Revenger's Tragedy, directed by Alex Cox Sid and Nancy and set in a post-Apocalyptic Liverpool instead of an Elizabethan wherever. It has the darkness and cynical wit of, say, Shakespeare's Titus Adronicus. Not a typical Kid Night film, but we were very pleased.
It's really frelling autumn. Yeah, I know it's been autumn for two days, but I've been trying to pretend otherwise. I wish I didn't hate autumn. I would like to love auitumn. I love a lot about autumn, but the thing as a whole freaks me out. Yes, the colors are nice, and Halloween is wonderful. The skies take on that bottomless blue, and I have to walk around always looking at the ground for fear of falling up. Since I was a child, I've equated autumn with death and other unpleasant things. I don't hate it as much as I hate winter, but I do wish August led directly to May. Yesterday I wrote a fairly impressive 1, words on "Bradbury Weather," and that was after I'd rewritten much of what I wrote on Wednesday.
It was a day when the words just kept coming. If only I could have four or five of those days every week. I was still writing at nine o'clock p. Also yesterday, I talked to Neil about what Delirium's charm should be the rest have been easy to figure outtalked with Storm Constantine about magick, forgot to call Harlan Ellison, and e-mailed Voltaire he's asked me to be a guest writer on an upcoming issue of Deady: The Malevolent Teddy, and how could I refuse? I also worked with the Fiddler's Green people, making mine and Spooky's travel arrangements for November. Oh, and I stole music off the internet.
But there's a bunch of dren I didn't get done, because so much time was spent writing. We didn't get more stuff up on eBay. I didn't write to Sa'jathan, who is "rediscovering" the Nebari language and has created a beatuful Nebari font and whom I really do owe a letter this very frelling day. A few other important e-mails weren't sent. But I did write, and repeat after me the writing is all that matters. Well, writing and cheesy popcorn. As to yesterday's post, I am now aware that it never showed up for those of you who read it via your LJ friend's lists.
Couch Slut to Bring Their Transgressive Noise Rock To New Haven
I think I know why. Slut meant to preview, accidentally posted an unedited version they've moved buttonsdeleted it, and and then reposted after editing. I think that's what vreen it. If you riddlers haven't Sults yesterday's post, follow this link. Right now, it's all I can do not to fuck off to a matinee fuddlers see The Forgotten. But that would be bad. Bad is easy, good is hard. Only that which is hard is fjddlers I know these are lies, but bear with me. I suspect that most authors don't really want criticism, Slutx even constructive criticism. They want straight-out, unabashed, unashamed, fulsome, informed, naked praise, Slutz by the shipload every fifteen minutes or fiddlesr.
Of course, I think this is one of those things that people aren't supposed to know vreen writers. We're supposed to take to negative criticism like ducks to water. We're supposed to have thick skins and be impartial about our work and not go all insanely bugfuck homicidal when some anonymous webcretin takes a Sputs piss on one of our children. I know that's how you like to imagine we are. It's noble Slutss dignified. However, I will confess, if we could somehow quantify praise and scorn, a gfeen glowing reviews Sltus do less good than the damage inflicted by one Sluhs review.
Naked praise, I say. That's all I need. I promise, I am my own worst critic. Slut rest of you should only concern yourselves with expositions on my genius. Nonetheless, grfen with all due respect, someone obviously needs to tell Anne Rice Sluts in fiddlers green Lestat de Lioncourt is a grefn character. Greeen think she may have forgotten. If you haven't already, check out the current ib auctionswhich are making it possible for Spooky to accompany me to Minneapolis in November for Fiddler's Green. My supply of Sluts in fiddlers green of Angels is going fast. Please, be generous and iin advantage of my generosity. I should go now. That's what humans do. They change things, as though familiarity fidders no comfort, or as though comfort frightened them.
And humans are far gdeen comfortable changing things of little consequence, like the update page at LJ than things of great consequence, things that need changing, like their hearts and minds and the presidency. Yesterday, I wrote 1, words on "Bradbury Weather," despite an astounding array of distractions and interruptions. Today, I am shutting out the world with somewhat more fiddllers than I did yesterday. At the moment, the story stands at 9, words, and if I'm right about fidvlers story going to fiddlerd 15, words, that means I fiedlers be done with it, at long, long last sometime on Tuesday. There are only a couple of other things which I have to attend to today, like the first few questions for the Bookslut interview and a few e-mails Sa'jathan, I'm getting back to you this evening, I promise.
I don't write this journal for myself, which sort of makes it something other than an actual journal when you get down to it. I write it for you to read, and that means I usually put the same effort into it that I put into my books and stories. Keeping this in mind, I found myself regretting how entries become history so fast. There's some good stuff in the comments talking to LJ folks here over the past few days, but I figure most of you read these entries once and move on, which is reasonable. But I thought I'd dig out a couple of comments from the last couple of days that you might not have seen otherwise: On the subject of the less-than-perfect astrophysics in The Dry Salvages ARCs which, by the way, has been entirely corrected for publicationpinkteaset3 wrote: I have a book of sci-fi stories from Victorian times through to present day.
One of my favourites was written when the theory of the "big bang" was first being popularised. The science of the story is not accurate according to what we know or think we know today, but the emotional impact of the concept, and the storytelling itself, hit me where it counts. Your comments about factual "errors" [in The Dry Salvages] in relation to art are wonderful. Making art is among many things a way to try to solve a problem that the artist is continually being addressed with, finding a means to an end when there is no end [italics mine--CRK]. It is in my experience deeply psychological and unexplainable. Stories are art that you get to live in, which is why I feel it is the greatest thing anyone could possibly be good at.
I can understand why you would be pissed off about not noticing the error before it was sent to reviewers, however, the book still put me on the floor. I think that the best science-fiction authors recognize that the science must be peripheral to the heart of a story, which must remain characterization, mood, tone, theme, etc. The story comes first, the science comes later. Otherwise, if you really are writing stories about science, obsolescence will be swift and unforgiving. Science is, by its very nature, a transient thing. Fact and theory are not eternal truths, but only temporary necessary fictions in pursuit of truth, which may be unobtainable.
Scientists understand this, but I think a lot of science-fiction writers don't. Then again, a lot of them do: Bradbury, Asimov, Clarke, George R. Martin, Harlan Ellison, Philip K. Dick, Dan Simmons, William Gibson -- these are authors who do understand, I think, that science fiction is about science's effect upon mankind, rather than being fiction about science per se. But still, I also believe a science-fiction writer has an obligation to get the science as "right" as she can at the point in time she's writing a story. And regarding Murder of Angels, redredshoes writes: One thing I think you as a writer don't get enough credit for is how many genuinely funny moments in the book there are.
It was kinda awful, but while they're in the drowned underwater kingdom I'm shrieking at Scarborough moaning, "I hate fucking boats I freely admit I'm a sucker for characters with inappropriate senses of humor -- you got another shriek when poor Niki says "What about 12 and 13 together? On the trip through oblivion and screaming chaos and old night, you need a smartmouth. I never really plan on the humour, or work at it, it just seems to come, usually at seemingly inappropriate moments. I think that would look good on my tombstone.
Anyway, I encourage everyone reading this on LJ to regularly read back over the entries from previous days and their comments. Some of the best stuff is in there, I think. I know that Amazon. This seems a impossible and b at odds with their explanations of how the ranking system works. Frankly, I think one of the webmonkeys at Amazon needs to slip their ranking system a laxative. Thanks to everyone who's taken part in the get-Spooky-to-Fiddler's Green eBay auction in its first 24 hours. Today, we're going to try to get a couple of unusual items up, including a slipcased hardback of Silk long ago sold out at Gauntlet Press.
We have sold out of Threshold, though, as of yesterday. In closing, I've been thinking about what a peculiar position working authors and other artists who depend upon their art for their income find themselves in with respect to any incentive to become better authors. It's not like I'll get a raise or a promotion if Daughter of Hounds is a better novel than was Murder of Angels. I know this from experience that bitch. Low Red Moon was vastly better, in my opinion, than Threshold, which, in turn, was vastly better than Silk. Because I feel the need to continually best myself, regardless of the fact that there has been no financial reward for doing so.
How many non-artists would labour under such conditions. Scientists often do, but their almost artists, even if they don't like to admit it. What if I walked into an office somewhere and told a secretary or whatever they're called these days or a data entry whatever-their-called that they should work harder, should work longer hours, should become better typists or accountants or managers or what have you because, goddamn it, it's just the right thing to do. Manage for managements sake. Type for the sake of typing, if you mean it, if you're sincere.
Do you think they would laugh at me, or would they simply spring forth from the prisons of their cubicles to fall upon me like ravenous zombies? I was only mildly angry all day yesterday. And then resonantserpent drew my attention to the fact that a London to Washington D. Well, not the whole story, but you know what I mean. The reason this thing about Yusuf Islam came up was that I listen to music while I write, even while I write in my blog. And yesterday morning I was listening to Cat Stevens' "Father and Son" while I wrote my entry, and on LiveJouranal there's a place to list music you might be listening to sadly, Blogger lacks this feature.
Is there even any point in saying that this makes me sick? That it's one more thing that makes me ashamed that I'm an American citizen? The Quran equates the murder of one innocent person with the murder of the whole of humanity. Are "we" really going to allow this thuggery to go on for another four years? My fear is that "we" will, that "we" will ask it in again, because most of America has no problem with the DHS equating Yusuf Islam with Osama Bin Laden, simply because both men are Muslim. Does this mean no one can ever again question my equating George Bush with Adolf Hitler, since both chose Christianity as their faith?
Of course, the truth is that islam would not have been turned away on Tuesday if he'd never spoken out against our actions in Iraq. That's what has made him an enemy of the State which should not ever be confused as being an enemy of America. Is this "watch list" Australia local sluts hook up 100 free no signup or fees Can I see it? Because I'd really like to know if my name's on it, and if it's not, I'd like to demand that it be placed there. I am surely an enemy of this fascist administration and can't imagine it wants me sullying its sacred fucking ground with my infidel's feet.
Yesterday, I made good on my vow and wrote 1, words on "Bradbury Weather. Hopefully I'll do as well again today. I feel like a person again. When I am not working, I feel like a dried up lump of yellow Play-Doh. There will be a pair of Docs for each of the Endless. More and better photos will be available later. The boots are a lovely deep red with gold chains and hearts. I'd love to own them myself. My own contribution to the auction will be an Endless charm bracelet that I'm making yes, with my very own hands. And speaking of auctions, today we are beginning the big auction to buy Spooky's plane ticket to Fiddler's Green.
Click here to see Sluts in fiddlers green we're offering. If you don't see it, just ask. And if it's within your budget, I Sluts in fiddlers green that you please make use of the Buy-It-Now feature. This wouldn't be necessary, of course, if publishers could be bothered to pay working writers advances and royalties that are commensurate with the work that they do there's the bot again. Your assistance in this matter will be much appreciated. By the way, if anyone feels motivated to send me pro-Bush, anti-Yusuf Islam, pro-war in Iraq hate mail, please address it to gothgrrl aol. I never, ever read that account anymore, so I'll not be bothered by the noise. Something from the dreams, but I'm not sure what.
Some neuroscientists a suspicious lot of wizards, I say claim that a dream that may seem to last a long, long time occurs in only a fraction of a second. There's something terrible and wonderful and breathtaking in that thought. That makes Cons of dating older men all a little less awful. But I'm drifting, aren't I? These dreams from last night, they were so long, months and months it seemed, so surely they lasted at least two whole seconds, and they left my mind everywhere at once.
So you will excuse the ill-focused nature of what follows. My thanks to greylit for providing this link to a review of Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr. It actually made me want to read the novel, but also addresses the issue of hype I was discussing just the other day and addresses it well. And, for anyone who doubts the potential efficacy of hype, I have Kostenloser sexcamforum bit from Variety, by way of Dark Horizonsby way of grandmofhelsing: Norrell, which is getting a major push from its publisher, is now a hot commodity in Fuck local sluts in campsfield. New Line, Warner Bros.
Clarke is already penning a sequel, and the studios smell a potential franchise. Of course, inNew Line, Warner Bros. Same with everything I've written since Threshold, and I had no "major push" from my publisher. So, with hype, your mileage may vary. Of course, it's also worth noting that I have a long history of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. And just let me say again, 'cause some folks hearing ain't so good and their reading comprehension may be even worse, I have nothing whatsoever against Susanna Clarke or this Very Large Novel.
Poppy called night before last, because her Sony Vaio died while she was in Washington D. Jennifer and I advised her as best we could. I'm a card-carrying, dyed-in-the-wool, been-this-way-since, absolute frelling Macintosh evangelist, but I put all that in the back of my mind and at least tried not to be pushy. But, still, I'm happy to see she bought an iBook after all. Yesterday, I made a large number of corrections to the existing portion of "Bradbury Weather," things Spooky and I discovered needed correcting when we read it on Sunday, and today I shall get back to work on the story. I will write at least one thousand words, or I will stand figuratively before you all tomorrow embarrassed and ashamed.
There were other things yesterday, e-mail with my agent in NYC about the contract for Daughter of Hounds, e-mail to be sure that the uncropped author's photo for The Dry Salvages had reached Mesa, Arizona in one piece it had. That sort of stuff. This morning, a few minutes after waking, after the aforemetioned long, long dream, four lines of poetry came into my head. That hasn't happened in a while. I groggily scribbled them down before breakfast. I'll look at it later today to see if it's anything worth pursuing. How can it be Here's an interesting thing. One of the criticisms that has been leveled at Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow is that the film contains a number of references to World War I.
Now, it's admittedly a dumb mistake. They would most likely think of it as "The Great War. It's something the filmmakers could have easily gotten right. But that's not my point. My point is to draw a parallel with my own work. Recently, Subterranean Press sent out about twenty ARC advance reading copies of my forthcoming short novel, The Dry Salvagesto a group of my more avid readers. Now, shortly after I got my own copies of the ARC, I discovered that I'd made a really, really dumb mistake regarding relativity and travel at near lightspeed, a bad calculation, that had thrown off the chronology throughout the book.
I'm plenty intelligent and educated enough not to have made the mistake, not to have let it wind up in the copy that went out to all the reviewers, but there it was, anyway. And still, this is not my point. My point is that not a one of the readers who were sent the ARC, who read it and commented on it online, caught the error. And yet there it was, staring me in the face. Why didn't they see it? It's a pretty obvious mistake, echoed throughout the book, and I know that these readers are a smart lot. I have a theory. It's a simple theory. No one went into the book expecting an error of such magnitude. They assumed, incorrectly, that, given my past as a scientist, all the science would be perfect.
They didn't see the mistake because they were not predisposed to look for the mistake. There was not hostility or resistance between them and the book, so they sailed right past the error, unphased. It's presence did not diminish their enjoyment of the story. And this is what I want you to think about. All "art" is filled with mistakes. Perfection escapes us all. By the way, if you've not yet bought your copy of Murder of Angelsnow would be a really, really good time. And I would be quite grateful. De Lint look bad, and he's a really nice guy and very fine writer, better than I am, so we don't want that, him looking bad, I mean.
Buy the book and save Charles De Lint's reputation. Also, we will be beginning a new round of eBay auctions in the next day or so. And the call for a webmaster and designer for my website is still open. I have a good candidate for a webmaster in the Netherlands, but no prospect for a designer, and I'd like to talk to a number of people before making any decisions. If you're interested, e-mail me at lowredmail mac. And now, I have to brush my teeth. This week's Publisher's Weekly includes the following review of The Dry Salvages the reviewer's name was not given, or I'd include it here: In the 23rd century, Earth has just discovered signs of the first nonhuman civilization on Piros, a moon in a star system some 15 light years away.
Extrasolar exopaleontologist Audrey Cather and three other crew members of the starship Montelius are dispatched to rendezvous with Gilgamesh, the exploratory ship that made the discovery, but when they make port they find that half the Gilgamesh crew has vanished on Piros while those on board are struggling with madness. Something has frightened the scientists to irrationality and driven at least one to spouting portentous passages from Blake's Book of Urizen. Suspense mounts excruciatingly as the crew of the Montelius hastens to Piros to confront the horror themselves.
Echoes of other first-contact stories-from the transcendent to the paranoid gothic Alien cycle-reverberate through the narrative, setting the mood for an eerily unpredictable close encounter. Kiernan also draws on her training as a paleontologist for her rigorously plotted extraterrestrial environments. But this tale's focus is squarely on the human, and it asserts an authority that will convince readers of all tastes that "the alien" is a fundamental fear that can conjure primal horror out of a sophisticated SF setting. But am I really a "horror specialist"? That sounds so sordid. For example, this morning, half-asleep, I picked up this week's issue of Creative Loafing, Atlanta's "alternative" paper hardly perfect, but a far sight better than the good-ol'-boy neofascism of the Atlanta Journal-Constitutionand with my squinty, unawake eyes beheld on p.
Try talking to most of these people about fantasy and weird fiction, and see how long it takes them to get that why-must-I-endure-such-riff-raff, annoyed cat expression on their faces. But, hey, you can attend workshops for "aspiring writers," fiction and poetry workshops Americans feel a lot better about writing if they use good, solid Proletariat words like "work" and "shop" when doing so. They're better than me, aren't they? I mean, it's not like they have to write for their supper. That it was the sort of film they'd see, knowing they'd hate it, just so they could complain.
And I was right. And the best this asshole, this Heather Kuldell, could come up with was criticism on the order of "Capt. Franky [sic] Cook Angelina Jolie sports a form-fitting uniform and an eye patch, disproving the long-held belief that pilots need two eyes for proper depth perception. It's like the people who complained that, in Batman Returns, Michelle Pfeiffer never could have made Catwoman's outfit from the stuff in her closet. Or they complain that Star Wars was a bad film because there's no sound in space, and X-wing fighters wouldn't bank, and Han Solo doesn't understand that a parsec is a measure of distance not of time, and, while we're at it, the dialogue is simplistic, hokey, and the plot is unoriginal.
The sort of people who complained because automobiles in A. Artificial Intelligence had three wheels, or because the crow in The Crow is actually a raven. In short, the people who just don't get it. Sometimes things happen that way because it's just fucking cool, or pretty, or meaningful on a completely unscientific, unconscious level. A good story, which Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow is most assuredly, is not to be bound by the tyranny of fact, unless that is the author's reasoned choice and intent. I was, however, quite pleased to see that Sky Captain My gods, the cryosphere has been activated.
There's no denying it. I can't feel my feet. I need a drink. Yesterday, Spooky and I read all the way through "Bradbury Weather. Bill Schafer at subpresswhom I let read the first seven thousand words yesterday, thinks I should stop having my first-person narrators draw attention to the weaknesses of first-person narration, but I'm not yet ready to do that. I want to write today, and I will try. The next scene is very clear in my head. Actually, the next two scenes are very clear to me. That's a good thing. I also updated the news page on my website for the first time since frelling March.
I desperately need a webmaster, someone who could stay on top of things and maybe even do something about my butt-ugly, mid-nineties design. Right now, there's a gap between March and September that I shall fill in later. Gaps piss me off, and, obviously, we need no more of that. Also, yesterday, I began talking with the guy who's doing the Bookslut interview, prequestion questions. I think this is going to be a very good interview. I haven't done many, hardly any, since Spring I'd done so many, and it was always the same lame questions, that I finally just stopped giving them.
I just couldn't stand to answer the same silly questions for the umpteenth time, because interviewers couldn't be bothered to do a little research and see that everyone else had already asked that question, and the answers were archived on my website. Last night, in an attempt to curb Spooky's rather alarming addiction to Morrowind, we got old school and played Scrabble until after three a. Okay, this has gone on way too long. I spend far too much time on this journal. I have more to say today, but it'll have to wait for a second entry, later on. Someone please get this thing out of my head But I was at the computer all that time. I was right here where I'm supposed to be, even though it was warm and beautiful outside, the last of summer fading in the aftermath of Ivan, and it was cold and icky, already, in my office.
My feet hurt from the cold, but I can't bring myself to admit the cryosphere is kicking in already. I can't bring myself to put on warm socks in September. I think our overriding goal was to produce recordings of the songs that did justice to the strength and vision of the material, and to truly see everything through to the end. I think we are all very pleased with the result. With the exception of perhaps one or more of us. What were you trying to convey through the music? Something along the lines of disdain or maybe scorn. The correct word eludes me at the moment. It may be inappropriate to spoil your enjoyment of the work by discussing it ourselves.
What about through the artwork? How did you get Leandro De Cotis to draw another cover? Leandro owed us some favors. Do you view the band as band as confrontational? Why or why not? We are very jovial and approachable people. Were you surprised by this?