Joy and Pain and So On

June 19

You know who rules? Marissa rules. You know why she rules? She sold a story to Analog today. Analog, which is presently overstocked on long fiction, nevertheless bought her long story, because it's that awesome. (I've read it. Yes, it's that awesome)

See, M'ris? We told you Stan would buy it.

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I'm still reading Heather's journal archives (I haven't had a chance to sit down and do that for a while). It's really cool, catching up on the past years of her life. Some of the things are stories she's told me, and sometimes I know the secret histories of the things she describes, and sometimes there are surprises. Glimpses. I want to know her through and through.

I'm really rather tremendously very much in love.

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I had a hard time going to work this morning. I had to stop my car on the way up, and pull over to the side of the road, so that I could write down some ideas I have for the Mr. Li story. No, I didn't finish it last night, but that's okay, because it's going to be a full order of magnitude cooler because of the stuff I came up with this morning. And now the severed head is so much more integral to the plot! So I eventually made it to work, and all I really wanted to be doing was sitting outside at Pergolesi, drinking a latté and writing.

Around midmorning, I started feeling pretty nauseous. I thought it was just the heat, and tried to ignore it, but it got worse. I begged some peppermint tea from Nice Boss, and that settled my stomach for a while, but after an hour or so the nausea came back-- there were moments when I really thought I was going to vomit, and if I hadn't had such an empty stomach, I don't know what would have happened. I was actually having a fun and productive day at work, though, messing with images (which is always fun) and re-writing trail descriptions. Trails people are wonderful, but they tend to not be the most articulate individuals, so I get to have a good time revising their prose. Anyway, things were going well at work, but I felt crappy. I stuck it out through a co-worker's birthday party, and didn't feel well enough to eat cake or ice cream. That's a bad sign, y'all. A couple of my co-workers are going on vacation soon, and they're paranoid about getting sick, so they encouraged me to go home. I don't think I'm contagious; I don't think I'm even really sick. I just had a troublesome tummy, is all. Still, I wasn't having that good a time at work. I finished up a couple of things, then bailed. Got home around 2 o'clock. Made more tea and moped around the house for a while, reading The Prestige by Christopher Priest.

Finally I decided to be somewhat productive, so I revised my most horrific horror story ever, "The Cat in the Black Striped Hat," and sent it off to Gothic.net. I can't think of any other market that would even touch this one. It's a twisted piece, full of vileness and bitterness, but it does have a moral center. It's about child abuse, pretty much. Most of my horror stories are, when you cut away the glamours and fillips. I also printed out "Bleeding West" to send into the time-sink that is Asimov's. So I had a somewhat productive afternoon.

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Did I mention that I joined the Science Fiction Poetry Association? Well, I did, sent in my dues last week. And today I finally sent in my application for the Horror Writers Association. I'm qualified to be an active member. Whee! "Dog Boys" and "Pearls, Frogs, Spiders" are unambiguously horrific pro sales, "Straight Trade" is at the very least a dark fantasy, and I could probably even argue that the fallen angels in "The Fallen and the Muse of the Street" qualify it as dark fantasy. So unless some hidden snag manifests, I should be an active member of HWA soon. The organization isn't the powerhouse it was in the late 80's and early 90's, but it's still pretty cool, and I understand it's getting cooler with every passing day, that people are taking a really active involvement again...

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A little bird tells me that I have three Stoker recommendations for my story "Werewolves and Princesses," which appeared in Chizine earlier this year, and can expect a fourth recommendation soon. That's getting me perilously close to making the preliminary ballot. That is so cool. One of my writer friends says that getting on the Stoker preliminary ballot just means you have three friends... but there are a lot of horror stories being published out there, you know? And all the authors have friends (well, most of them anyway, I assume). So I think it does mean a little something, at least. I certainly don't expect to win, don't even expect to make the final ballot, don't even really know if I'll make the preliminary ballot... but it's an honor just to be recommended, y'all.

(For those who don't know, the Stoker is the big horror award, the horror equivalent of a Nebula or a Rhysling, given by members of the HWA)

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So I wrote "Orpheus, Among the Cabbages." It's speculative, and it's got some sex in it. It is, as my old boss Dean Sawyer would have said, "One of Tim's dirty poems."

I love me some dirty poems.

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I'm halfway through The Prestige and it's really cool, told partly through narrative, partly through letters, partly through memoir. Very neat, Victorian era magic stuff. I'm digging it lots.

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I'd just like to mention, once again, that Marissa rules.

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Sigh. The new Blake Babies CD is out, and I can't afford to buy it. I am so sadly dirt barrel-bottom poor. I should have more money soon (and I did get my check for "Mask" today, which helps), but for the time being, I'm a brokelet.

I've been able to live without buying the new Radiohead, because Scott has it. Likewise the new Weezer, for the same reason. I can borrow those if I feel the need. But Scott's not going to buy the new Blake Babies. Nobody's going to buy the new Blake Babies except me. Well, except for Meg, who already bought it-- who bought it used, in fact, for half what I'd have to pay for it. She doesn't even like it very much, as she prefers Juliana Hatfield's solo work.

Sigh. I'll have it soon.

I'm just glad I bought Radiohead tickets when I was still rich. One week from tomorrow, y'all, and I'll be rocking to Thom and company in Mountain View.

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This past couple of weeks, for the first time ever, my hands are bothering me. It's only when I run the mouse-- typing still seems to be fine, though if I damage my hands, everything will hurt. Damn it. I knew I wasn't immune to RSI, but jeez, it's been so good for so long! So in an effort to not get worse, I've been monitoring myself pretty closely, taking lots of breaks, doing stretches, trying to improve my admittedly wretched ergonomics. I need a better office chair at home-- this one is too low, and it's not adjustable. I'm sitting on a couple of pillows right now, to bring the seat to a more appropriate height. Maybe it's not too late to improve my habits, and at least keep this problem at a manageable level. Everything I know how to do for a living involves computer crap, you know? Except for advertising, which I'd rather not get back into, as it eats the soul and free time, even as it fills the bank account. If I ruin my hands, that messes up my ability to make a living, it messes up my writing (though I do intend to look into voice recognition software once I get more financially stable), it messes up my sex life, my ability to cook, my jo staff twirling, everything. Being with Heather, who has some significant RSI-related problems, has made me really conscious of this stuff... and I'm freaking out about it a bit, to be honest.

Be careful out there, y'all. Take lots of breaks. RSI is the new middle-class plague, here.

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I accepted a Bruce Boston poem for the next issue of Speculon. Bruce Boston! He's awesome, and I get to send him a contract and give him money and facilitate the publication of one of his poems. I'm a happy little poetry editor.

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Okay. Sleep now. Good night.