icon, username, subject line, and a bunch of words
The "best of" collection is coming together. I'm very happy to announce that pretty much all the artists on my wish list are now on board for the volume. The limited hardback edition (as opposed to the trade hardback edition) will have a bonus section, sixteen pages of reprinted illustrations that have accompanied my stories over the years. Artists include Richard A. Kirk, Vince Locke, Ryan Obermeyer, Ted Naifeh, and Dame Darcy. So, that's one more way this book is going to rock.
An utterly atrocious writing day yesterday, thanks to the insomnia of the night before. I barely managed 587 words. In light of all this not sleeping and not writing enough, I'm postponing my trip to NYC until October, after we return from Portland and the HPLFF.
Speaking of which, first off, if you're wanting to buy tickets to the festival, here's the link.
Secondly, gods, I'm exhausted. And I look it. The combined of effects of insomnia, several years of illness, and the meds I take for all that crap, have left me...brittle. And I have this fear that people will be going to the HPLFF expecting to see that person I was three years ago when I was interviewed for Lovecraft: Fear of the Unknown, or, worse yet, the person I am in the author's photo (taken in 2003) up on the HPLFF website. Yeah, I know it's silly and shallow and petty of me to worry about shit like this. Sure, I know. This is all meant to be about the writing, not about the writer's physical appearance. But it's one thing to know this, and another thing to feel this. Mostly, I feel terrified. I ceased being a "public" person years ago. I sit in my office and I write. Which is what writers do. Writers aren't supposed to be celebrities (as Kristin Hersh says in Rat Girl, "Fame is for dorks."), and we aren't supposed to worry about how we fucking look at public appearances. That mindset is anathema to being a writer. And yet, all I said about this dread is true. We are all victims of the beauty myth and the cult of youth, even when we have declared ourselves its worst enemy. I want to be read, not seen. That's the way it's supposed to work.
Last night, I resorted to the Seroquel, and slept about eight hours. I just couldn't go another night without sleep; I was all but insensible yesterday.
But before the Seroquel, there was very good rp in Insilico. I begin to fear Grendel Ishmene feels more like me than I feel like me. The ego and superego subsumed by the alter-ego. And Spooky and I did what felt like a metric shit-ton of battlefields on WoW, Alterac Valley over and over, because Alterac Valley was "Call to Arms" this weekend...and...you know. Goddamn geeky shit like that.
Anyway...fuck...I need to get to work. But please have a look at the eBay auctions, and Spooky's Etsy shop (with new Halloween ornaments!). Thanks.
An utterly atrocious writing day yesterday, thanks to the insomnia of the night before. I barely managed 587 words. In light of all this not sleeping and not writing enough, I'm postponing my trip to NYC until October, after we return from Portland and the HPLFF.
Speaking of which, first off, if you're wanting to buy tickets to the festival, here's the link.
Secondly, gods, I'm exhausted. And I look it. The combined of effects of insomnia, several years of illness, and the meds I take for all that crap, have left me...brittle. And I have this fear that people will be going to the HPLFF expecting to see that person I was three years ago when I was interviewed for Lovecraft: Fear of the Unknown, or, worse yet, the person I am in the author's photo (taken in 2003) up on the HPLFF website. Yeah, I know it's silly and shallow and petty of me to worry about shit like this. Sure, I know. This is all meant to be about the writing, not about the writer's physical appearance. But it's one thing to know this, and another thing to feel this. Mostly, I feel terrified. I ceased being a "public" person years ago. I sit in my office and I write. Which is what writers do. Writers aren't supposed to be celebrities (as Kristin Hersh says in Rat Girl, "Fame is for dorks."), and we aren't supposed to worry about how we fucking look at public appearances. That mindset is anathema to being a writer. And yet, all I said about this dread is true. We are all victims of the beauty myth and the cult of youth, even when we have declared ourselves its worst enemy. I want to be read, not seen. That's the way it's supposed to work.
Last night, I resorted to the Seroquel, and slept about eight hours. I just couldn't go another night without sleep; I was all but insensible yesterday.
But before the Seroquel, there was very good rp in Insilico. I begin to fear Grendel Ishmene feels more like me than I feel like me. The ego and superego subsumed by the alter-ego. And Spooky and I did what felt like a metric shit-ton of battlefields on WoW, Alterac Valley over and over, because Alterac Valley was "Call to Arms" this weekend...and...you know. Goddamn geeky shit like that.
Anyway...fuck...I need to get to work. But please have a look at the eBay auctions, and Spooky's Etsy shop (with new Halloween ornaments!). Thanks.