In 2008, I will write every single day, no matter what — because the only aspect of publishing over which I have any real control is the quality of the material published, and the quality of the material to come.
2007 hasn’t been my strongest year.
2008 might not be, either.
But it sure as hell won’t be if I slack off now.
Tonight, I think: the g0thbar. It’s within walking distance, it’s affordable, and a perfect excuse to glam up and hang out while waiting for the ball to drop. Perhaps, given enough motivation and little enough alcohol, we can leave a bit early and dash up the hill back home in order to watch the fireworks over at the Needle. I rather like the thought of it — ball skirt and mask, corset and boots, at the summit of Cap Hill in the cold, surrounded by eye-rolling hipsters and frosty-breathed toy dogs in designer snowsuits.
I declare it thus!
And so my plans are set in stone.
Of course, before any gussying up can take place, there’s work to do. Edits for Those Who Went Remain There Still have landed and are underway; and I’d like to compose a New Years Resolution post, but it might have to wait until tomorrow, depending.
As for the rest of you — readers, friends list, internets and your marvelous tubes — I hope that each and every one of you has a marvelous evening and a happy new year. Eat yourself some black eye peas (for luck) and greens (for money), and have yourself a smooch at midnight.
So long, 2007.
We hardly knew ye.
I sent off something to Subterranean and got a little bit of editorial clean-up done; and then Ellen appealed to my hunting/gathering instincts,* so we went thrifting. I now own more hats than I have ever previously owned at any point in my life — including my bald-as-an-onion baby years, when my mother bought stock in pink baby bonnets in order to demonstrate to all and sundry that I was, in fact, a little girl.
But in my defense, they are very sensible cold-weather hats. And they are also quite kicky. Likewise acquired: shiny black rubber rain boots and three gorgeous wool skirts.** Total damage: about $70. Happy New Year to me!
I still have no idea what to do tomorrow night. I’m starting to have some reservations about that ball thingy, and I’m wondering if it wouldn’t just be easier to gussy up and hit up the g0thbar. HELP ME, PEOPLE. I have a desperate need to get dressed up and nowhere certain to go show off as I ring in the new year!
Okay. I’m bending to the peer pressure because cute out-of-town visitors are putting on the squeeze, and even Aric is on-board. So here’s the question: how many of you locals actually intend to attend this on New Year’s Eve? It’s a $35 cover, which is a little steep, methinks; but if it sucks, it’s just a hop skip and jump over to The Mercury.
Last night I got a new phone, because (a). my old one was several years old, (b). I was sick and tired of missing and losing calls, and (c). I wanted a unit that would stay charged for more than an afternoon at a time.
Down at the AT&T store, I talked a salesman into giving me his last Motorola Razr V3 for free, because I am awesome. The salesdude was all, “We’ve got a bunch of the higher end models here, but only one V3 left in the store, and it’s black. Is that okay?” And I was like, “SIGH. I SUPPOSE that would be all right. But only if you can give me a discount.” Because I totally would not have demanded it in black in the first place, or anything.
And finally, after what — nearly two years now? — I’ve agreed to admit that I live in Seattle, and I signal this resignation with a brand new local phone number. I think I got most of my regular callers updated last night; but let this be a warning to you: if you think you have my phone number, there’s a chance you’re mistaken.
Anyway, insert transition here.
So what’s going on in this town for New Year’s? Last year I stood in my jammies on top of Cap Hill with Ellen with a mug full of rum and watched the fireworks down at the Space Needle. This was a perfectly pleasant way to spend the event, and if I wind up repeating it, then I won’t consider the night a bust by any stretch of the imagination.
But this year I’m feeling more … I don’t know. I think I’d like to go somewhere and get dressed up all fancy and fun-like. Maybe it’s just been Maudelynn’s creative influence, but I’m dying to throw on a mask and a ball skirt and hit the town. It’ll be New Year’s eve!* And besides — the marvelous Ms. Jhayne will be passing through the area, and she’s been asking for recommendations.
Can I get a little help from the local folks? Comments and suggestions are most welcome.
The thing about owning a smallish, oldish car that is paid off in its entirety and which you rarely ever drive … is that you tend to let its routine maintenance needs slide. It’s not that you don’t value the vehicle; and it’s not that you want it to stop working; it’s just that you figure, “It’s lived this long, another week/month/six months/etc. won’t kill it, right?”
Right. But then you notice that your tags are about to expire,* and that you have to pass an emissions test before you can renew them, and then you have a panic attack over how long it’s been since your poor car received even the most rudimentary attention short of having five bucks worth of gas flung into the tank so your husband could drive to his martial arts class.
So you take it to the local auto shop. You sit down in the lobby, approach the desk when they call you, cross yourself, lower your eyes, and make your confession.
Me: Forgive me father for I have sinned. It’s been 8500 miles since my last oil change — which took place, oh, I dunno, over a year ago …
[:: thirty minutes later ::]
Nice man in a jumpsuit: You ever do a load of laundry and realize you left a Kleenex in a pocket?
Me: Yeah.
Nice man in a jumpsuit: But you discover it before you throw your clothes in the dryer, and you fish that wet, dirty little wad out of your pocket and you say, “EEEW.” And then you throw it into the trash, but you miss, and it ends up on the laundry room floor by the drain where it filters dirt for about a month before you think to pick it up and throw it away?
Me: Yeah.
Nice man in a jumpsuit: That’s roughly what your air filter looked like. Also, you didn’t have enough oil left to shine a bald man’s head. Here are your keys.
Me: Thanks!
Once again feeling morally spotless, I zooshed over to the emissions place and spent forever in line. My car passed the test, so I took my little slip of paper over to the licensing place — where I dropped a ridiculous amount of money on a one-inch-square sticker that will keep me legal for another twelve months. Finally, I swung by the pet store and (a). spent an inordinate amount of time cooing over another cat that’s up for adoption, (b). was accosted by a small and sticky toddler who begged me to pick her up so she could see the kitty,** and (c). raided the aquarium aisles after some water treatment drops and new schwag for Howard’s tank.
How this took almost all day, I have no idea.
But I’m home now, and trying to catch up on a little Friday afternoon housework because the floors are getting revolting. Is anyone doing anything tonight? Any peeps heading out to the Merc? To the movies? I know the weather sucks, but if we-as-citizens-of-Seattle let that stop us, God knows we’ll never leave the house.
The site says that if you retake it, your speed improves with each trial … but I don’t think mine would improve much with a cat lying across my wrists or wiggling in my lap, so I suppose I’ll just take the score and leave it at that.
Fun test, though! I wonder what astounding digits my college roommate would rack up. Her typing is seriously mind-boggling. She makes me look like an elderly shop teacher poking at the board with six busted nubbies and a bendy straw.
[Spoilers shall abound like face-huggers hopped up on Red Bull. You have been warned.]
Many a fan-person did bespeak a thousand gripes with the first installment of Alien vs. Predator, largely because, well, it was awful. Even when it occasionally rose to the level of High Cheese it was at best a goofy little flick — and really, that’s not what fans of either the Alien or Predator franchise ordered. It ought to have been, “Hay, you got your chocolate in my peanut butter!” “Hay, you got your peanut butter in my chocolate!”, blending into something righteously violent, gory, twisted, terrifying, and huge. “Goofy” shouldn’t factor anywhere into this equation.
Enter the producers for Requiem. Fan People, were they all — and they vowed to redeem the honor of the franchise. Their efforts were not altogether in vain.
AVP:R picks up where AvP leaves off, but for the sake of everyone’s sanity it doesn’t languish there long. Brand new baby Pred-Alien pops out of the predator’s chest and havoc is wreaked, the ship is crashed and trashed, and a distress signal is fired off to the home planet.
Back in the Tribeworlds one lone bureaucrat Yautja is sitting in his cubicle. He notes the distress signal, grabs a helmet, and hops alone into a space ship in order to seek out the trouble.
Mind you, this predator has duly noted that (a). the crashed vehicle was toting a cargo of alien face-huggers and (b). there now appears to be a hybrid predator/alien creature running amok, to boot. Yet for some reason, Cubicle Predator opts to go it alone. Perhaps he’s gone to management one time too many, and been told that the funding just isn’t there — so he’ll have to handle the crisis himself, on a budget, but he can file an expense report later if he saves all his receipts.
Anyway. On Earth, the poop has met the fan with gusto.
First rule of AVP:R — don’t get too attached to anyone, but don’t worry, the writers have made it easy by filling up Doomed Town with jerks. Right out of the gate, my fellow theater-goers and I were marking the townspeople for death. Almost everyone is either an asshole teenager, a meathead, or a moron. From the very start I said to myself, “Self, if this town were to get wiped off the map by a military containment strike, frankly, I don’t think that would be the worst of all possible outcomes.” And don’t you worry. It’ll come to that.
It’s almost a shame. If the townspeople hadn’t been such dickweeds, I might’ve given them heartier odds for survival. After all, this is rural Colorado and everybody and his brother has a gun; and besides, it’s huntin’ season and the town has at least as many sporting goods stores* as pizza parlors. At first I thought maybe the town would rally a bit, a la the unapologetically hokey and marvelous Slither. But no. That which follows amounts to about a full hour of aliens and their face-hugging larvae chewing through the populace with merry holiday glee.
And if you think there’s someplace this movie won’t go, you’re grossly mistaken. In proper apocalyptic horror fashion, no one and nothing is spared. That cute little boy in the opening sequence? FACE HUGGIE INCUBATOR. Sick old people and homeless dogs? NOSHED UPON. Pregnant waitress? EVISCERATED. A room full of babies in a hospital nursery? MAY AS WELL HAVE BEEN SERVING JALAPENO POPPERS.
Meanwhile, of course, the Cubicle Predator is meeting limited success. By the time he’s killed off the first round of aliens, he’s badly wounded, pretty pissed, losing his weaponry one piece at a time, and starting to look a little lost. But does he think of calling home? Asking for some back-up? Requesting an extra first-aid kit? Mais non. It was almost sad to watch. I mean, you’re rooting for him, sure; but in the back of your head you’re wondering why the Tribeworlds sent this B-team goober into this particular fray. Poor Cubicle Predator. He should’ve at least had a partner, bless his heart.
But he doesn’t. And the task is entirely too huge for one lone paper-pushing dread-head, so by the time the U.S. military has given the go-ahead to blow the town off the map, it’s just as well. Everyone with whom you-as-viewer were even remotely sympathetic has made it out of town in the hospital’s emergency helicopter, and besides, the dialogue is so bone-jarringly awful that I, for one, was getting tired of listening to it. It really chapped my hide to think that some screenwriter somewhere got paid cash dollars American to compose such feats of verbal pyrotechnics as, “People are dying!”**
But tooth-meltingly terrible dialogue aside, AVP:R was a very good example of a movie that is exactly what it’s supposed to be. It pulled no punches, didn’t get too deep, blew up a bunch of shit, and pushed the limits of how gruesome and arbitrary a blanket threat might reasonably go. All in all, I accept this film as an apology for the previous installment, and I can recommend it as a jaunty, squishy antidote for the same.
I give it six tentacles out of eight. Two got knocked off because, seriously.
The dialogue. Nobody freakin’ talks like that.
This morning Aric and I unwrapped our presents, which led to scenes of destruction like this:
Voila the husband who did some exceptional shopping this year. No seriously, he had his A-game going:
The snow eventually stopped, and subsequently melted. Then we were joined by some lovely friends, and our living room filled up like this:
After supper we went to go see Alien vs. Predator: Requiem, and it was exactly as silly as this picture would have you to believe:
Tomorrow, if I get around to it, I will write a review. You may safely assume that it too will be silly.
I’M WRITING THIS FROM MY NEW LAPTOP AND IT IS SNOWING OUTSIDE!
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!
[:: flails ::]
“when the weather outside is frightful
pwning n00bs is so delightful
and baby I’m in the zone
let it pwn let it pwn let it pwn!”
~Alex, who is silly.
It’s been a pleasantly lazy day for the most part; I got my act together long enough to go nab Kat for nibbles and tea, then returned home in order to whisk the boys out to the grocery store at two minutes until closing. Why did I need the boys? Soda and beer and meat are heavy. I am lazy. You do the math.
Anyway, together we charmed* our way into the QFC right under the wire to pick up the last-second essentials, and then dashed home through the frigid miserable cold-awful-and-not-even-snowing weather, and now we’re lounging around playing video games and halfway watching TV. It’s a mellow holiday.
Tomorrow, it’ll be me and the boys, plus Kat and her husband — which tickles me pink. We’ve got way too much food for three people, anyway. So tomorrow afternoon, let there be meats! And mashed potatoes! And apple pie! And cheap wine or nice beer, whichever may be their preference!
But for now, here’s your holiday installment of Spain the Cat — all but daring me to try and stick a Santa hat on her. Alas, I have no Santa hat. I also have no Christmas bows to mount upon her head. Clearly I am derelict in my holiday cat-humiliating duties.
Whatever you celebrate this time of year, whoever you are, wherever you are, I hope you have a good one.
Today began with a stupendous brunch and early afternoon tea in the company of graphxgrrl, plus formicadinette, maudelynn, and their respective sweeties; and then graphxgrrl joined me and moriarty6 for a matinee screening of Sweeny Todd.
[Discussion to follow; mild spoilers may occur. Consider yourself warned, read at your peril, etc.]
And now I’m trying to write a good, solid review of Sweeny Todd and finding myself a little bit short on things to say. I mean, all the elements of greatness are present: Alan Rickman with sexy doom voice (check!), Johnny Depp all shaggy and tragic (check!), Helena Bonham-Carter in magnificent crazy-ass wardrobe (check!), Tim Burton at the helm (check!) … and yet somehow, it wasn’t very satisfying. Yes, I know. I’m sitting here trying to do the math, and I agree — it just doesn’t add up.
The movie fails on some fundamental level, and I just can’t put my finger on what it is. Any number of things could be noted as “less than stellar,” yet none of these things individually should mean the sinking of the show. And yet. And yet.
Please allow me a moment to talk my way around the point. I said of The Corpse Bride that it was a lazy story shagging on a beautiful chaise lounge; and I stand by that assessment. But of Sweeny Todd there’s no stink of laziness — on the contrary, it’s frenetic and loud, energetic and lavishly produced. There are moments of exquisite comic glory, and there’s even a stab or two at real tragedy.
So why didn’t I enjoy it very much?
Perhaps because it lacks the bite it advertises. Rickman’s character is a dull paper-doll of two-dimensional mustache-twirling villainy; Todd as the homicidal barber is too bone-deep crazy to muster the true and vicious malice of the miserably sane. His maniacal vow that He Will Have Vengeance!OMG !!! eleventy111!!! is undermined when he shotguns his wrath in many of the wrong directions, and he doesn’t ask enough questions when he returns home. I understand that the glory of fanaticism is redoubling the efforts when you’ve lost sight of the objective, but real fanaticism — real obsession — incubates in the horror of those early questions. It revels in the tragedy of the answers, and uses the pain as compost for the hate.
Maybe that’s all it is. For all that I felt the first half of the movie was annoyingly front-loaded to establish Todd as a tragic figure, a human monster, a broken and struggling creature in search of a place … it just didn’t do a very good job. I didn’t like him (and I think I was supposed to, at least a little). I didn’t like Mrs. Lovett, though she rang more true to me than Todd did. Her decision to jettison the one person who truly loves her in order to protect a man who’ll scarcely give her the time of day — that moment was pitiful in its honesty, and it stood out as such. And I think that’s part of the problem.
The moments that rang true and fierce were few enough and far enough between that I can point them out and count them on one hand. It is shockingly appropriate that Todd’s splattershot wrath is turned against his own past loved ones in a moment of offhanded rashness. It is a verse of veracity when Todd and the Judge confess in duet that they’re two of a kind, but really — if you-as-viewer haven’t figured that out by the time the moment of clarity arrives, you deserve a gentle boot in the ass.
Is it that Sweeny Todd is a mile wide and an inch deep? Is it all flash and no substance?
I can’t say as much for certain, because for all my joking glee at the casting and the scenery, the bones of a solid tragedy are truly in place. A man is wronged, robbed, and jailed for a crime uncommitted. His wife poisons herself, his daughter is the ward (and soon to be unwilling bride) of his nemesis. At its core, this is ostensibly a story about a good man who goes bad. If it isn’t, then it isn’t very interesting, because it’s just a story about a bad man doing bad things for disposable reasons.
But I was never convinced that (a). Todd was ever good to begin with, really, and (b). that he’s anything but bugnuts crazy now, and not “bad” per se. Dangerous, yes. A lunatic, yes. A monster, most definitely. But not a very human one.
Of course, there’s always the chance that I want too much of this story, but if that’s true than it’s only because — as I said — the bones of a better story are in place. It’s the execution that derails it for me, and good heavens it must’ve done something seriously wrong to leave me with a “meh” in my mouth after watching Depp and Rickman sing a peculiarly intimate duet about how much they love women. Do you understand how badly this movie must’ve screwed up? DO YOU?
Anyway. I grow tired of philosophically floundering in public, so I will leave you with this — Sweeny Todd is pretty to look at, dull to watch, and oddly off-putting in ways that have nothing to do with the gore or the lack of color saturation. If you love Rickman and/or Depp you should (and no doubt will) see it; but don’t ask too much of this film, because it is ill-prepared to deliver.
This is a tough one to discuss without resorting to heavy spoilers, so I’ll keep it short and sweet: Very nicely done, but gut-wrenching and absolutely devastating. I found it far more intense and heartbreaking than The Mist, but maybe that’s just me. And as an aside, if you’d told me fifteen years ago that the Fresh Prince of Bel Air would grow up into a guy who could make me cry over vampires, I’d have never believed you.
As part of the backdrop for the the steampunk novel-in-progress, I establish early on that the American Civil War has been raging for significantly longer than it did in real and proper history. The reasons for this are manyfold and they include (but are not limited to) my desire for an inappropriate degree of late 19th century technology.
I don’t require microchips and atomic bombs, but I do want to create a credible excuse for the widespread use of war dirigibles, some mech-style / steam-powered weaponry, and a few unlikely communication advances. In short, protracted war and an ensuing arms race make an obvious and natural narrative thruster to account for fantasy world tech that outpaces the historical tech.
With this in mind as a world-building backdrop, Andrea has once again demonstrated her Civil War historian prowess and unearthed the quote with which I’m going to introduce the novel. I don’t usually bother with such things, but this is too perfect not to borrow, and I rather strongly doubt we’ll run into any copyright issues.
“In this age of invention the science of arms has made great progress. In fact, the most remarkable inventions have been made since the prolonged wars of Europe in the early part of the century, and the short Italian campaign of France in 1859 served to illustrate how great a power the engines of destruction can exert.”
Thomas P. Kettell, 1865
From History of the Great Rebellion.
Actually, the full title of the book is rather markedly longer than the quote itself, because (as Andrea put it), when they titled a book in the 19th century they went whole-hog and that book By God stayed titled. Here’s the whole shebang:
Ah, it is to laugh. Nowdays, you’d never shoehorn that title past marketing. Anyway, here’s the daily progress upon the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and now Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War.
For the idly curious, that’s roughly 100 pages, double-space typed.
Here comes Christmas, and books always make a great gift or personal treat. So if you’ve been reading along with me for awhile now, and you’ve been thinking to yourself, “Self, that Priest woman sure can post a mean kitty picture, but can she tell a story?” … well, there’s no time like the present to find out; or, hell — inflict me upon a loved one. As the following graphic indicates, Amazon can still spread the love in time for the holidays.
Alas, there isn’t really any time to get the books signed before Santa squeezes down the chimney, but if you’re splurging for your own library and a signed copy would incline you to add my stories to your shelves, I keep a post office box open and ready to accommodate your requests.
Not Flesh Nor Feathers (flaming zombies, ghosts, historic hate crimes)
Dreadful Skin (Irish nun with 2 six-shooters, werewolves, riverboats)
Wings to the Kingdom (monsters, ghosts, Civil War battlefields)
Four and Twenty Blackbirds (ghosts, voodoo, homicidal cousins)
Still not convinced? Go here to read some helpful reviews* that will tell you more about the books, and more about why you should read them.
I spent the day running errands more than writing, though I also finished up and sent off the most recent freelance assignment. So despite my minimally impressive word count, I’m glad that I got to spend some time with the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and now Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War.
It was also nice to natter on with Andrea about some of the novel’s background. She gave me much to think about, as well as some insightful thoughts about how it actually feels to spend a long period of time in a gas mask. Since I’m about to drop an irate woman with a Spencer repeater out of a tricked-out war dirigible down into walled city with toxic air and a massive zombie problem … extra thoughts on gas masks are quite helpful at this time.
Anyway, I realize I’ve been a bit boring lately, and for this I apologize. There’s much going on to keep me busy, but none of it makes for very good blogging material — though I hope to catch a movie tonight, so perhaps there will be a pithy review forthcoming.
But for now, I leave you with a glamour shot of Howard the Fish, because SingingNettle asked for photographic confirmation that I supplement Howard’s wimpy little heater with tea lights. Well, here you go. I just throw a couple of wee candles up against the tank wall and spark ‘em up … then wait an hour or two. It raises the temperature about 5-8 degrees, and as far as I can tell, this pleases him greatly.*
Freelancery: Mostly Draft Zero done. Would be fully Draft Zero done, except for spending too much of the morning on the phone fact-checking with people who are low on facts, full-up on irritating run-around. Will probably wrap up the assignment tonight, clean it tomorrow, send it in tomorrow afternoon.
Home Front: Hmm. Aric came home from work sooner than expected, grabbed Christmas packages, dashed out the door to go mail them. When he gets back, I might be nibbly enough for an early supper. I’m not feeling very ambitious, though. Perhaps take-out.
Recent progress upon the west coast steampunk Victoriana with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and now Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War:
Last night, we did fondly send off our beloved Caitlin Kittredge — who is leaving us for a couple of months in order to take a writer’s sabbatical back in Massachusetts.
Left to right, that’s Richelle Mead, Caitlin herself, and Kat Richardson. If they seem to be posed strangely, well, there was a giant stuffed troll, or gnome, or something like that behind the gate — and I was trying to work it into the shot.
Safe travels, Ms. Cait. Go write yourself into a little paperwork fortress, and we’ll all look forward to your return.
I only wrote about 500 words today when a freelance assignment landed, but that was okay. I need the money, so I spent the remainder of the day knocking out half the gig; and tomorrow I’ll finish it up. Fiction will resume tomorrow evening, or possibly Wednesday.
And now I need to log off and gussy up for the evening, as there’s a going-away party for one of my writer buddies and I’ve volunteered to be the designated driver. But here’s a picture of Spain the Cat cheating on her beloved Tor envelope.
Don’t worry — I’m sure it’s just a meaningless fling. She’ll be back rubbing her face all over Liz’s name before you know it.
Every festive, anthropomorphic dessert cookie I’ve ever created has looked like the victim of violent accident resulting in super powers. But not so the subjects of this afternoon’s frosting-fest! Ellen is a serious cookster, and our sugary blank slates were damn near perfect.
Things began ordinarily enough, and even Aric got in on the fun. Note his prim little snowperson.
But after an hour or two, well, I’m not going to say that the cookie-decorating party got out of hand or anything, but things definitely got silly.
More after the jump. Click below for proof of the carnage…
(more…)
One of my old LiveJournal friends, Nevenah, has finally managed to get herself back to New Orleans. It’s been a long, tough road home — but she’s settled in now and thrilled about it; and I’m quite happy for her, even though I only got to see her once while she was passing through Seattle.
At any rate, over at her brand-new Etsy shop you’ll find her gorgeous handmade origami bird ornaments, which are also has showcased in a gallery there in NOLA. These are lovely unique pieces, made with Japanese paper and strung with beads and semi-precious stones — and they’re quite reasonably priced, should anyone need just one more stocking stuffer.
As per usual I didn’t manage as much progress as I would’ve preferred today, but the progress is respectable, if not thrilling. I’ll hash out more over the weekend, and hey — I’m still successfully clinging to my minimum standard of 10K a week. Ideally, I’d prefer to swing at least twice that much, but until I earn enough money writing fiction that I can afford to write nothing but fiction, 20K a week will likely remain a pipe dream.
On the upshot, I’ve had several sudden anthology invites; and although I perpetually swear that I’m NOT going to bother with short stories anymore, some of the offers are too good to pass up — and they give me ideas that are too cool to remain unwritten. So it looks like I’ll be doing at least two more shorter pieces in the next few months.
Speaking of which, many of my writer buddies have been posting their yearly round-up of publishing stats. Mine aren’t really numerous enough to warrant a list format, but since several people have asked, you can find a more-or-less full accounting of what I’ve been up to over here. It’s not broken down by year, no. Because I’m busy, yes.
Progress upon the west coast steampunk Victoriana with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and now Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War:
(With a friendly nod to Cassie.)
Come New Year’s Day, a marvelous new free PDF magazine called Noctem Aeternus will make its big debut. If I seem disproportionately interested in this magazine, well yes — that’s because I’ve made a contribution to it. My story is called “The Target Audience,” and it’s a little bit science fiction, a little bit religious conspiracy, and a little bit hardcore noir. It also holds the distinction of being the first piece of fiction I’ve ever written which is set in Seattle.
So now I’m going to be a lazy little blogger* and reproduce a helpful excerpt from the proprietor’s press release:
Noctem Aeternus will be a FREE quarterly PDF magazine chock full of fine science fiction, fantasy, western, and even mystery stories … but all the tales will include an element of horror.
The first issue will feature a short story (and interview) from master storyteller Ramsey Campbell. Some of the best writers in the business have also made fiction contributions, including Cherie Priest,** Charles Coleman Finlay, Tim Waggoner, and Michael Laimo — and you’ll also find interviews with filmmaker/musician Rob Zombie and featured artist Kuang Hong.
Paula Guran, Michael Knost, Brian J. Hatcher and Jude-Marie Green will offer quarterly columns about the horror genre, reviews, and more. Go here to sign up for a FREE subscription or read the submission guidelines.
Cherie Priest's books on Goodreads
