Entry No. 6,452
A very, very long day.
It was sunny, at least, if a little chilly. Our high was only 68˚F.
In the morning, I finished reading Michael Punke's The Revenant: A Novel of Revenge. I worked a little on Mosasaur Paper 1 (Mosasaur Paper 2 is currently shelved, because there are priorities). I had to email Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press and another editor at another press (I'd rather not say). I sorted through about two-hundred emails (no exaggeration) at the old greygirlbeast account; the only thing I'd missed of any real importance was an offer last week from a publisher who wants to put out a Czech edition of The Drowning Girl. I forwarded the inquiry to my agent. At 1 p.m., I had a call from Mike Polcyn, and we discussed MP1. By 3 p.m. I was at McWane, mostly busy with the calipers taking measurements of a frontal and premaxilla. A little after five, I was back home (I'll be at McWane again on Monday). This evening, I'm supposed to view more material by Nan Goldin, in advance of writing what I need to get written for her (by April 11!), but I crashed shortly after I got home and there was no energy for worked left in me.
Fuck, I'm tired.
I've reached a point where try to avoid reviews of anthologies that I'm in, and I cringe when I see publishers email them to me. I'm almost never mentioned, and if I am, it's not because my story is being singled out for praise, or even derision, but only a passing comment calling me one of the "old guard" or an "established voice," while the reviewer gushes praise over some hip new kid. The world is drowning in hip new kids promising a bright future. When I was getting started, we were hip new kids facing the stingy, mean grimness of whatever lay ahead. I'm pretty sure history - assuming there is history left to come - will look more kindly on we poor pessimists than on this cockeyed crop of stargazers. Or navel gazers. Or whatever they're looking at. Anyway, it makes me want to restrict my fiction to Sirenia Digest and maybe the occasional SubPress anthology.
Have a look at the Big Cartel shop, if you will. Be a mensch. Take mercy on the passé. Thanks.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
4:43 p.m. (I feel a little like this ancient, discarded exhibit sign)
It was sunny, at least, if a little chilly. Our high was only 68˚F.
In the morning, I finished reading Michael Punke's The Revenant: A Novel of Revenge. I worked a little on Mosasaur Paper 1 (Mosasaur Paper 2 is currently shelved, because there are priorities). I had to email Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press and another editor at another press (I'd rather not say). I sorted through about two-hundred emails (no exaggeration) at the old greygirlbeast account; the only thing I'd missed of any real importance was an offer last week from a publisher who wants to put out a Czech edition of The Drowning Girl. I forwarded the inquiry to my agent. At 1 p.m., I had a call from Mike Polcyn, and we discussed MP1. By 3 p.m. I was at McWane, mostly busy with the calipers taking measurements of a frontal and premaxilla. A little after five, I was back home (I'll be at McWane again on Monday). This evening, I'm supposed to view more material by Nan Goldin, in advance of writing what I need to get written for her (by April 11!), but I crashed shortly after I got home and there was no energy for worked left in me.
Fuck, I'm tired.
I've reached a point where try to avoid reviews of anthologies that I'm in, and I cringe when I see publishers email them to me. I'm almost never mentioned, and if I am, it's not because my story is being singled out for praise, or even derision, but only a passing comment calling me one of the "old guard" or an "established voice," while the reviewer gushes praise over some hip new kid. The world is drowning in hip new kids promising a bright future. When I was getting started, we were hip new kids facing the stingy, mean grimness of whatever lay ahead. I'm pretty sure history - assuming there is history left to come - will look more kindly on we poor pessimists than on this cockeyed crop of stargazers. Or navel gazers. Or whatever they're looking at. Anyway, it makes me want to restrict my fiction to Sirenia Digest and maybe the occasional SubPress anthology.
Have a look at the Big Cartel shop, if you will. Be a mensch. Take mercy on the passé. Thanks.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
4:43 p.m. (I feel a little like this ancient, discarded exhibit sign)