I had a wonderful time at the reading at the Lovecraft Arts & Sciences Council tonight. I saw people I hadn't seen since NecronomiCon and people I hadn't met outside of Facebook and I heard excellent writing from the likes of KL Pereira, Chris Irvin, Bracken MacLeod, and Paul Tremblay. I read three poems and an unpublished short story (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ashlyme, the one with the Lady of the Cuts) and people asked me to sign copies of Ghost Signs. One member of the audience told me that I seem very reserved but come alive in spates, like a watercourse, which I think is one of the nicest things that has ever been said to me by a total stranger. There was Q&A and I talked about learning languages to get closer to stories, the way that the elementary shapes of the Greek gods become wilder and stranger up close, like most worthwhile things; I said that I write about things I find beautiful and things I don't understand and things that frighten me, which covers most of the bases. The coffee-bar across the aisle in the Arcade served me a hot toddy made with ginger tea. And now I am home and since it is after midnight, it is spatch's birthday; I brought him back a beat-up but necessary paperback of Nicholas Monsarrat's The Ship That Died of Shame and Other Stories (1959). Autolycus is demanding attention. This is all right.
ashlyme, the one with the Lady of the Cuts) and people asked me to sign copies of Ghost Signs. One member of the audience told me that I seem very reserved but come alive in spates, like a watercourse, which I think is one of the nicest things that has ever been said to me by a total stranger. There was Q&A and I talked about learning languages to get closer to stories, the way that the elementary shapes of the Greek gods become wilder and stranger up close, like most worthwhile things; I said that I write about things I find beautiful and things I don't understand and things that frighten me, which covers most of the bases. The coffee-bar across the aisle in the Arcade served me a hot toddy made with ginger tea. And now I am home and since it is after midnight, it is spatch's birthday; I brought him back a beat-up but necessary paperback of Nicholas Monsarrat's The Ship That Died of Shame and Other Stories (1959). Autolycus is demanding attention. This is all right.
