My friend says we're like the dinosaurs...
Hello? Anyone out there listening? I hope so, because this experiment is a failure, and I'd really like to come back home now. I know, I thought it would be exciting and perhaps even enjoyable, getting a close look at humanity on the eve of its collective apocalyptic suicide, but I was mistaken. It's just sad and ugly, and I hate this world, and I'm tired, and I want to go home. I really don't mind walking out of the theatre before the story's over, and it's quite okay that my "Visa" won't expire for another seventeen years. I won't complain, and I won't ask for a refund. I've seen enough, and it's not like I don't already know where this worldline is headed.
So, whoever's monitoring 2007, I know how closely you keep tabs on the internet. I'm a reasonable woman; you can even keep the deposit. Enough is enough, please.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Yesterday, we proofed "Mercury," which, aside from a few commas, was actually in very good shape. Then I began trying to work my way through all the red marks, and was reminded that my greatest talent might be underestimation. In yesterday's entry, I was foolish enough to write, "then I begin the actually editing, which I hope to have completed by tomorrow evening or Thursday evening at the latest."
Hah!
Kiernan, you're a blasted idiot.
It took us more than two hours just to get through "Anamorphosis" and "To This Water (Johnstown, Pennsylvania 1889)." Given there are twenty stories left to go, and that the marks on many of them are far heavier, it quickly became obvious that I would have to hand this job off to Spooky so I can get back to, you know, actually writing new stories. I'll still need to spend a full day, at least, taking care of various things she won't know what to do with. And, I shit you not, the last year is a goddamn tedious blur of proofreading, editing, and rewriting. Tales from the Woeful Platypus, Daughter of Hounds, Threshold, Low Red Moon, Murder of Angels, Silk, Beowulf, and all sorts of other little odds and ends. Enough for me. My nerves are frayed, and there's not time left for making old stories better. I have to write Joey Lafaye in the next six months. I need to get back to the "Onion" screenplay in the next week or so. I have to get Sirenia Digest #22 out, and finish "Salammbô Redux" (a.k.a "Little Conversations"). And that's more than I can manage.
Nothing much to be said for yesterday. The sacred frelling trinity of any writer: Stress, Exhaustion, and Frustration. Yeah, those were here, one, two three. I watched John Ford's Stagecoach (1939) on TCM, because I'm a sucker for drunkard doctors and whores with hearts of gold. I read dispiriting things about Pakistan in the new issue of National Geographic. I ate jelly beans and watched the rain and stayed away from the liquor shelf in the pantry. That was yesterday.
Have you ever heard a platypus laugh? It's not a pretty sound.
So, whoever's monitoring 2007, I know how closely you keep tabs on the internet. I'm a reasonable woman; you can even keep the deposit. Enough is enough, please.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Yesterday, we proofed "Mercury," which, aside from a few commas, was actually in very good shape. Then I began trying to work my way through all the red marks, and was reminded that my greatest talent might be underestimation. In yesterday's entry, I was foolish enough to write, "then I begin the actually editing, which I hope to have completed by tomorrow evening or Thursday evening at the latest."
Hah!
Kiernan, you're a blasted idiot.
It took us more than two hours just to get through "Anamorphosis" and "To This Water (Johnstown, Pennsylvania 1889)." Given there are twenty stories left to go, and that the marks on many of them are far heavier, it quickly became obvious that I would have to hand this job off to Spooky so I can get back to, you know, actually writing new stories. I'll still need to spend a full day, at least, taking care of various things she won't know what to do with. And, I shit you not, the last year is a goddamn tedious blur of proofreading, editing, and rewriting. Tales from the Woeful Platypus, Daughter of Hounds, Threshold, Low Red Moon, Murder of Angels, Silk, Beowulf, and all sorts of other little odds and ends. Enough for me. My nerves are frayed, and there's not time left for making old stories better. I have to write Joey Lafaye in the next six months. I need to get back to the "Onion" screenplay in the next week or so. I have to get Sirenia Digest #22 out, and finish "Salammbô Redux" (a.k.a "Little Conversations"). And that's more than I can manage.
Nothing much to be said for yesterday. The sacred frelling trinity of any writer: Stress, Exhaustion, and Frustration. Yeah, those were here, one, two three. I watched John Ford's Stagecoach (1939) on TCM, because I'm a sucker for drunkard doctors and whores with hearts of gold. I read dispiriting things about Pakistan in the new issue of National Geographic. I ate jelly beans and watched the rain and stayed away from the liquor shelf in the pantry. That was yesterday.
Have you ever heard a platypus laugh? It's not a pretty sound.