half awake or half asleep, particles or waves...
The headache that dogged me all damned day and night yesterday has now faded to a faint twinge somewhere behind my right eye. Still, it was a good Halloween, much better than last year, even if I didn't get any writing done yesterday. The headache, the distractions of Halloween, blame those things. I took care of some e-mail and gave up trying to work about 2:30 p.m. (I think - it's kind of a blur) and took a hot bath. That helped a little. So did the Dresden Dolls and the Decemberists, though the latter got me to thinking about pirates and ambergris again. We had a fair number of trick-or-treaters last night and managed to unload all the candy Spooky had stocked up on. We'd spent a couple of hours pulling our costumes together, and then we sat in the cold on the front steps surrounded by all our jack-o'-lanterns. I got a very good idea for a children's book (not YA, but an actual children's book), which I shall try to write this month, I think. Our costumes were far and away more imaginative than almost all the trick-or-treaters, which was a little disappointing. Kids these days. Sheesh. One teen idiot showed up in a baseball cap adorned with breasts, which I assume was meant to be his costume. I told Spooky that next year, that sort gets celery stalks instead of candy. Spooky looked great in her mask by E. L. Downey (thanks Robin!). This morning, I have some mild soreness from the hasty removal of latex prosthetics that I should have been loosened with spirit-gum remover, instead of just ripping them off because I was too tired to be bothered. But still. A good Halloween.
Now, of course, we stand on the threshold of the dread "Holiday Season." Shudder.
Thanks to Dwayne Wood, I now know the origin of the werewolf illustration I posted in an entry back on 16 August. Les Lupins by Maurice Sands, ca. 1858. Dwayne also reminded me that Montague Summers mentioned the wolves at the wall thing in The Werewolf, which I confess I've not read in ages. Summers writes, "In Normandy tradition tells of certain fantastic beings known as lupins or lubins. They pass the night chattering together and twattling in an unknown tongue. They take their stand by the walls of country cemeteries, and howl dismally at the moon." So, there you go.
Congratulations to Jessica Langer, who was the first person to e-mail me about that free copy of The Dry Salvages yesterday. And thanks again to Roel for making such a generous offer.
While looking for something the other day, I came across this bit from my my blog (back before I expanded to LJ):
At dinner the other night, a well-meaning friend made a comment, the upshot of which is that, as a moderately successful writer, one who supports herself solely by her writing, I have a very easy life. I think Poppy sort of touched on this in a recent livejournal entry, actually. Here's the thing. It really is a pretty goddamned good life, once I get past the constant, gnawing doubt, the coldsweats that come any time I allow myself to consider how precarious my situation is, the unstable bank accounts, the absence of health care or any realistic hope of retirement, the mess that eleven years of constant typing has made of my wrists, the depression that keeps me on pills that only make me ill in other ways, the almost constant isolation that comes with working alone, the unhealthy habits I develop to try to make it all a little easier, the publishers who don't pay me for months after they're supposed to, the whims of editors, the dull-witted, illiterate, wanna-be copyeditors who mutilate my work, the anonymous (and not so anonymous) internet cranks who aren't simply happy attacking my work but who find it necessary to also engage in ad hominem slander, the deadlines, the anxiety that comes from the unending necessity of disgorging ideas that are fresh and original and exciting and something I can actually write, and so on and on and on and on.
If you can get past all that, yes, it's easy as falling off a log.
After the various and sundry trials of the last year - hell, the last two years - these words, if I do say so myself, seem even more astute than when I wrote them way back on 30 November 2003. You can read the whole entry here.
I'll be putting a copy of the lettered edition of The Five of Cups (leatherbound, traycased, signed, extra material not in the other editions) up on our eBay page later this afternoon or this evening. The winner of the auction not only gets the book, they also will be getting Monster Doodle Sculpture #4.
And, of course, there's still the poll, re: the monthly weird erotica subscription service. We now have a whopping 94 people who've asked for subscriptions. Given that I'm capping this thing at 125 members, that doesn't leave many open slots. I'm very pleased with the response and greatly appreciate all the e-mails and "yes" votes.
Now, of course, we stand on the threshold of the dread "Holiday Season." Shudder.
Thanks to Dwayne Wood, I now know the origin of the werewolf illustration I posted in an entry back on 16 August. Les Lupins by Maurice Sands, ca. 1858. Dwayne also reminded me that Montague Summers mentioned the wolves at the wall thing in The Werewolf, which I confess I've not read in ages. Summers writes, "In Normandy tradition tells of certain fantastic beings known as lupins or lubins. They pass the night chattering together and twattling in an unknown tongue. They take their stand by the walls of country cemeteries, and howl dismally at the moon." So, there you go.
Congratulations to Jessica Langer, who was the first person to e-mail me about that free copy of The Dry Salvages yesterday. And thanks again to Roel for making such a generous offer.
While looking for something the other day, I came across this bit from my my blog (back before I expanded to LJ):
At dinner the other night, a well-meaning friend made a comment, the upshot of which is that, as a moderately successful writer, one who supports herself solely by her writing, I have a very easy life. I think Poppy sort of touched on this in a recent livejournal entry, actually. Here's the thing. It really is a pretty goddamned good life, once I get past the constant, gnawing doubt, the coldsweats that come any time I allow myself to consider how precarious my situation is, the unstable bank accounts, the absence of health care or any realistic hope of retirement, the mess that eleven years of constant typing has made of my wrists, the depression that keeps me on pills that only make me ill in other ways, the almost constant isolation that comes with working alone, the unhealthy habits I develop to try to make it all a little easier, the publishers who don't pay me for months after they're supposed to, the whims of editors, the dull-witted, illiterate, wanna-be copyeditors who mutilate my work, the anonymous (and not so anonymous) internet cranks who aren't simply happy attacking my work but who find it necessary to also engage in ad hominem slander, the deadlines, the anxiety that comes from the unending necessity of disgorging ideas that are fresh and original and exciting and something I can actually write, and so on and on and on and on.
If you can get past all that, yes, it's easy as falling off a log.
After the various and sundry trials of the last year - hell, the last two years - these words, if I do say so myself, seem even more astute than when I wrote them way back on 30 November 2003. You can read the whole entry here.
I'll be putting a copy of the lettered edition of The Five of Cups (leatherbound, traycased, signed, extra material not in the other editions) up on our eBay page later this afternoon or this evening. The winner of the auction not only gets the book, they also will be getting Monster Doodle Sculpture #4.
And, of course, there's still the poll, re: the monthly weird erotica subscription service. We now have a whopping 94 people who've asked for subscriptions. Given that I'm capping this thing at 125 members, that doesn't leave many open slots. I'm very pleased with the response and greatly appreciate all the e-mails and "yes" votes.