I slept four hours last night. No, I slept four hours this morning. I lay in bed until six o'clock. I'd watched all of John Carpenter's The Thing (1982) for maybe the two hundredth time (not an exaggeration) and three episodes of How It's Made (I'm on Season Four). Wow. Three sets of parentheses in one sentence. Anyway, I dozed for maybe ten ( Read more... )

Back in September, thereabouts, there was a day when I finally sat down with Kathryn, and we talked, and I made the decision that I would never write a another novel. We worked out a remotely feasible way to bring in enough money with me only doing short fiction, novellas, and Sirenia Digest. It was a for-sure thing. There was a profound sense of ( Read more... )

I was an old woman, a very old woman. In my eighties, perhaps, and I had, at some point, inherited a squalid little flat in Boston that had been left to me by Quentin Crisp. I don't know how this had been accomplished, as Crisp died in 1999 and tended to live in squalid little flats and flop houses in Manhattan, not Boston. But there I was, and he ( Read more... )