Silver Tongue, Golden Hat
July 6
2:30 p.m.
Another lovely Saturday. I've lived through something like 1,250 Saturdays, give or take, and this is one of the loveliest, pleasantly breezy, bright, full of productivity and happiness. Mmm.
Neil Gaiman linked to my review of Coraline, said it was very nice, but that it gave away more plot than some people might want to know. I always find that a difficult thing, when writing reviews -- how to give enough plot to entice, without giving too much away. I'm afraid I tend to err on the side of too-much... I wrote to Neil to thank him for the link, and to apologize for giving too much away, and he said I shouldn't worry, that he just wanted to provide a spoiler warning because there are people out there who haven't read the book yet and don't want to know anything about it, that most reviews are so short they don't get past chapter three. So I don't feel so bad now.
The evening of the fourth, Heather and I went to Tilden Park in Berkeley and sat on a blanket on the grass. There were lots of families, lots of kids, plenty of people to watch. We sprayed one another with water guns, we drank iced tea, we took photographs, I read poetry aloud. We talked about writing; I'm moving into the poetry-centric phase of my writing cycle, paying a lot of attention to the way words fit together, to details of the world. Narrative is becoming difficult while texture becomes easier. It's sort of nice. I haven't felt really poetryish in a while.
Friday I had to go to work, alas. I got a lot done, cranking on the computer for about six hours straight, then working less feverishly for the remainder of the afternoon. Last night I went to the gym and had a pretty good workout, then joined Heather at Au Coquelet, where we sat and talked and read things and generally had a nice time. I wrote a couple of mainstreamish poems, just getting my poetry muscles back in shape, honestly. I doubt I'll send them anywhere.
We came home, and I got some work done, writing a bit over 2,000 words of Rangergirl. We watched television and snuggled. Very nice. I slept on the couch, because Heather's got a cold, and wanted to make a nest of pillows to prop herself up in bed. I woke up this morning at 8:56, which is a nice side-effect of sleeping in the living room -- I don't spend the whole day in the dark, comfy cave of Heather's room. I showered and came upstairs to work, did another couple of thousand words on Rangergirl -- I'm into the amazingly cool stuff, now, all the dominos I set up earlier are starting to fall, and it's great fun to write. Mmm. I'm about 70,000 words into the book, now. I may finish before the end of the summer. That's the hope, anyway...
I woke Heather about 10:40, and took her away with me to get breakfast at Mama's Royal Café. Amazingly yummy meal, and very pleasant weather for walking in. We came home, and I finished The Red Church. Dunno what's next -- I want to read The Years of Rice and Salt, but I'd also like to re-read one of Straub's novels, maybe Mr. X or The Hellfire Club...
I said a few entries back that there weren't many books I was looking forward to this year, but I forgot about Michael Chabon's Summerland -- I want very much to read that one.
Rejections: One from Dreams of Decadence (I sent them the only vampire story I've ever written, and they didn't want it), one from F&SF on a collab with Heather. Sigh... such is the writing life.
We're off to see Minority Report this afternoon, at Grand Lake, my favorite theater... I am, alas, no longer looking forward to seeing Men in Black II, since the word on the street (and by "the street" I mean "the internet") is that it's not very good. Too bad...
More when I return.
7:40 p.m.
Minority Report was pretty good. Had flaws, but it was very enjoyable, and much less schmaltzy than I've come to expect from Spielberg. Nothing can redeem the man who made the crapfest that is A.I., but at least he didn't repeat his crimes...
I got a parking ticket, though. Thought perhaps they wouldn't be so strict on a weekend, but I was a fool...
Oh, hey, the Locus Awards have been announced.
Gah, it's hot in my room. Gah. How am I supposed to work up here? I should, like, go to Au Coquelet and read or something (Oh, I'm reading Last Things by David Searcy, who wrote Ordinary Horror which I, um, haven't actually read, but have been meaning to. Last Things will be published in October. It seems good so far; if I like it, I'll likely review it.)
10:30 p.m.
I went to Au Coquelet, but didn't read much -- I wrote 1800 more words on Rangergirl, scribbling through intermittent hand-cramps. It's becoming addictive. The book is really rocking and rolling along, now, and I've been looking forward to writing pretty much every scene from now until the novel's end. Yum!
On the way home, on BART, an old guy in a golden sequined hat yelled "Hey! Want to hear a poem? I'll make up a poem for you!" He had a sheaf of photocopied, stapled pages in his hand. I said "No, thanks," because I'm pretty broke, and can't afford right now to give any money to rail-riding poets, though I support them wholeheartedly in theory. After a couple of minutes I regretted turning him down, though, and thought that I should say "Hey, I'd like to hear a poem, but I can only pay you by telling you a poem in return." I know a couple of my own by heart, after all, and a fellow poet would surely accept such a proposition, especially in the absence of better-paying alternatives. But, alas, as I looked up from my book to make this offer, the train pulled into the station before mine, and he disembarked. Too bad. I wonder if he was any good...
Words written since February 1, 2002: 106,880
Words written since last entry: 6,300
Please send me a sound-activated plastic dancing cactus wearing sunglasses.
Tim Pratt Read about my current publications.
Join my notify list
Post on my newsgroup
Buy a chapbook, Living Together in Mythic Times. $2.75. Quantities limited, remaining copies feeling lonely. Buy with PayPal, if you distrust the mails.
P.O. Box 13222
Berkeley, CA 94712-4222