"Sorrow's my body on the waves."
I'm running a little late because I've been looking at rough cuts of the book trailer, sent to me this morning by Brian. This thing is going to be beautiful. Right now, it has this marvelously sublime and unnerving atmosphere, like Terrence Malick and David Lynch met in a bar...
Also, having watched a lot of "behind the scenes" stuff, I've concluded that a) the older I get, the more I look and sound like a muppet and b) almost all writers should be read, not seen and heard.
How is it I'd never heard (or head of) Florence + the Machine until this past weekend? Is my isolation that complete?
Yesterday, I wrote 1,840 words on "Ex Libris." This is one of those stories where I started with truly no idea where I was going. Something something something about books and bad stuff and bad books and bad people and stuff. Now, I'm nearing the end of the story, and I know exactly what it is, but trying to figure out how I got from there to here is almost impossible. Regardless, I'll likely finish the story by tomorrow afternoon. Then it's on to "Sexing the Weird." Whee.
Spooky read each and every line by line, twice over, of chapters Five, Six, and Seven of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir (thank you, mystery idiot at Penguin), correcting the random changes. I'm trying to stop being livid about this. You know, I spend about 35% of all my waking moments trying to stop being livid about whatever has me livid at any given moment. "Oh, she was a very angry beast. Did you know that?"
Last night, coffee, leftover chili, a hot bath, Rift, and Spooky read to me from House of Leaves. We watched last week's Fringe. These are my exciting evenings.
A note to the contributors to the "Tale of the Ravens" kickstarter: probably 98% of the work on this has to be done by Kathryn, and the last two or three months she's had to devote almost all of her spare time to assisting me with all sorts of crazy writerish bullshit. Since I began working with Dark Horse, and the way things have gone with The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, I've needed her help constantly. If she's not proofreading or making phone calls, she's deflecting bullshit so that I can write. Because I can't afford to hire someone to do these things. This means she's not been able to keep to the schedule she'd hoped to keep to for "Tale of the Ravens." At this point, she might have one painting left to do, and I still have to write the text, and there's all the printing to be done. If you donated to the project, we're very, very grateful, but please understand the metric shit-ton of unforeseen chaos going on at this end. Be patient. It's coming. Frankly, Kathryn's pretty much sick of me and my writing (in that order, I suspect), and just wants to be painting. Anyway, almost everyone has been amazingly cool, and we thank you. If you donated, keep checking the projects blog for updates.
Whatever else I was going to say can wait. You know, those are grand "famous last words."
From the Books of,
Aunt Beast
Also, having watched a lot of "behind the scenes" stuff, I've concluded that a) the older I get, the more I look and sound like a muppet and b) almost all writers should be read, not seen and heard.
How is it I'd never heard (or head of) Florence + the Machine until this past weekend? Is my isolation that complete?
Yesterday, I wrote 1,840 words on "Ex Libris." This is one of those stories where I started with truly no idea where I was going. Something something something about books and bad stuff and bad books and bad people and stuff. Now, I'm nearing the end of the story, and I know exactly what it is, but trying to figure out how I got from there to here is almost impossible. Regardless, I'll likely finish the story by tomorrow afternoon. Then it's on to "Sexing the Weird." Whee.
Spooky read each and every line by line, twice over, of chapters Five, Six, and Seven of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir (thank you, mystery idiot at Penguin), correcting the random changes. I'm trying to stop being livid about this. You know, I spend about 35% of all my waking moments trying to stop being livid about whatever has me livid at any given moment. "Oh, she was a very angry beast. Did you know that?"
Last night, coffee, leftover chili, a hot bath, Rift, and Spooky read to me from House of Leaves. We watched last week's Fringe. These are my exciting evenings.
A note to the contributors to the "Tale of the Ravens" kickstarter: probably 98% of the work on this has to be done by Kathryn, and the last two or three months she's had to devote almost all of her spare time to assisting me with all sorts of crazy writerish bullshit. Since I began working with Dark Horse, and the way things have gone with The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, I've needed her help constantly. If she's not proofreading or making phone calls, she's deflecting bullshit so that I can write. Because I can't afford to hire someone to do these things. This means she's not been able to keep to the schedule she'd hoped to keep to for "Tale of the Ravens." At this point, she might have one painting left to do, and I still have to write the text, and there's all the printing to be done. If you donated to the project, we're very, very grateful, but please understand the metric shit-ton of unforeseen chaos going on at this end. Be patient. It's coming. Frankly, Kathryn's pretty much sick of me and my writing (in that order, I suspect), and just wants to be painting. Anyway, almost everyone has been amazingly cool, and we thank you. If you donated, keep checking the projects blog for updates.
Whatever else I was going to say can wait. You know, those are grand "famous last words."
From the Books of,
Aunt Beast