Ugly Mermaids. Or What Have You.

November 27

One of Heather's co-workers burned CDs of the Buffy musical songs and gave them out at the office-- I write this to the strains of Buffy walking through the fire. Mmm. Loveliness.

Busy day. There's normally something of a lag at work, between issues, but we're zooming along this time. Our last day of work is Dec 21, then we're off for Xmas week, so we have to accelerate the magazine-creation process a little. I spent much of the day laying out a report about SF in Israel... pretty interesting.

I'm reading Black House. This book rules. Straub is a much more mature writer now than he was when he co-wrote The Talisman, and his touch is apparent-- it imparts a real elegance to the work. And Stephen King is always good for cranking up the amps; he rarely distances himself from difficult subjects at Straub occasionally does, and he also excels at that conversational style I find so engrossing... plus, the story just rules. King has a real gift for deftly creating characters I care about, and for giving even secondary characters just a little more depth than you'd initially expect... this is especially striking to me so soon after reading Tea From an Empty Cup, since for Cadigan "characterization" apparently consists of giving her characters a single attribute, like claustrophobia or greed. Also in reading Summer of Night which, while good, reads a bit like a King pastiche... It, only not as compellingly creepy. And, to Simmons's credit, not as annoyingly meandering or overburdened with extraneous backstory...

Man, my claws are coming out tonight as I talk about these writers, aren't they? I can tell I've started writing reviews semi-regularly... But about Black House, I'm about a quarter of the way in and no complaints.

Let's face it. I like me a well-done horror novel. Perhaps my seemingly arbitrary designation as third-string horror-reviewer at A Certain Magazine isn't as arbitrary as it seems... perhaps my boss has some particular sensitivity that enables him to instinctively ascertain such things.

I'm pretty sure my boss can teleport, too. But more on that some other time.

Stupid MSWord spellchecker doesn't recognize the word "teleport". Though it does, amusingly enough, recognize "MSWord".

So... I got some yummy food for me and my sweet Rambleflower Heather tonight, sandwiches from the best sandwich shop I know, and potato salad... We had a cuddlesome time on the couch. She's sore and sick, but we had a sweet, if too brief, time together tonight. Since she turned in, I've been reading, and writing short letters-- sending a copy of LCRW to Blah (being as "Annabelle's Alphabet" is dedicated to her), and a note to my Dad.

In writing news, I got contract and check from Elysian Fiction for "The Invisible Musicians". La. I shall give the money to my credit card company, I think, as I've been charging things madly for the holiday season... According to Jim Bailey, the ish should be up in early/mid-December, and should thereafter be deliriously quarterly... Otherwise, no movement...

Good to see Infinite Matrix has returned to life. Sterling's blog is neat. I especially enjoyed his particularly unattractive mermaid child in Munich.

Mmm. CD is on repeat. I love Anya and Xander's duet, even if it is a retro pastiche. I like me some retro pastiche.

Okay. I'm gonna surf around some (I don't spend much time online these day's; I'm out of innumerable loops). So, bye.

Tim Pratt
P.O. Box 13222
Berkeley, CA 94712-4222