Above is me in the Dutch churchyard in Brooklyn that inspir'd Lovecraft to write "The Hound." While roaming the site, HPL chipped off a bit off tombstone from one of ye markers, and fantasized about how the dweller interred beneath the stone would haunt Grandpa for this desecration. My being there was part of a three-week tour during which my patrons took me to New England and New York, ending our tour at WFC in Saratoga, during which Joe Pulver took us too visit the tomb of Robert W. Chamber. It was amazing, that tour. During our four days in Providence, S. T. Joshi, who was doing work on the Collected Poetry of Clark Ashton Smith at John Hay Library, took us on an exhaustive tour of Lovecraftian sites. I was carrying all three of S. T.'s Penguin Classics editions of Lovecraft's tale, and my battered old pb edition of Fungi from Yuggoth. The greatest, moft overwhelming experience of my life as a Lovecraft came when I went up and touched 10 Barnes Street, where Grandpa penned so many of his classics.
I know it's a fantastic thing to say, but I did sense Lovecraft's spirit there, and my soul connection with him. It was the moment when I felt so amazingly thankful to be a Lovecraftian writer, the thing that has blessed me with keenest joy.
I have been extremely ill for over a month, and it doesn't seem like I'm gonna get better any time soon. Tonight has been one of the worst nights. I think my ailments are a combination of heart disease and lingering bronchitis. One of my ailments is coranary arterial spasms, which happens usually when I recline in bed and try to sleep--they jerk my body and produce a little yelp, making sleep impossible so that I am a zombie moft of ye time. I've not seen my heart doctor at Swedish or taken my meds for almoft half a year, stupid, I know. I shall correct that. The bronchitis has been severe. Speaking and breathing is, at times, almoft impossible. (I spell "most" as "moft" cos HPL did so in his correspondence--he is utterly under me skin...) Writing is impossible, and because I'm a Drama Queen, honey, I am convic'd that I shall never get better, that this illness is my final trial. The wretched health is combined with my task as my mother's live-in caregiver. She has sunk into rich senility and almoft never stops yelling, screaming, howling. I need silence in order to write. But also, being down here in the basement, bent over the keyboard, completely wears me out after half an hour. Thus I spend almoft all of my time in my deathbed--I mean my sickbed, where I have gather'd pens and pads. I thought maybe I could spend day after day jotting down notes, inspir'd by ye books I read, recording little germs or titles for potential future tales, perhaps even plot outlines or rough drafts in longhand. Ain't happening.
So. I herewith announce my Retirement from Writing. Maybe after three or four years of trying to rest, I shall recover and be able to work. Maybe I need only wait until Spring's warmer weather to nourish my body with a semblance of restored health. Maybe not. This is a real ripoff, a cruel cosmic jest, because I am at ye height of my abilities as an author. Girlfriends, I have so many ideas for future books whirling within my wither'd brain, books I ache to write.
If this is the end of my career, that's cool. I've accomplished far more than I ever thought I would. I still have four books forthcoming! My thanks to all of you who have supported me as an author. I wrote those books for you. I love you.
I'll still come here to chat about weird literature and promote books by my chums and new cds from Boy George and Barbra Streisand. And I'm staying on Facebook, where I usually post the vlogs I record at YouTube.
Be well, kind hearts. Thank you for following my blog. I hope to keep it worthwhile.