Yellow leaves, dripping eaves.

I moved into a new apartment in Brooklyn this week. My windows are on the ground floor, and look out on to the big red front doors of a church. The grey stone provides a backdrop for the people on the sidewalk, always curious to see who's in this human aquarium, always drawn to the light and movement within. A new house comes together in pieces; I have curtain rods but as yet no curtains. Pages of the New York Times will come between me and the church, me and the steeple. I like to look out, but that's too many people. 

Walking around Brooklyn in the rain, I've been thinking about the way San Francisco used to inspire me. I loved that city, though she never loved me back. People say that New York screams in your face that you ain't shit, but I don't hear her like that. San Francisco was clear in her disinterest and disdain; New York seems to be asking me to show her what I've got. I'll take an invitation and a challenge any day. I suppose I have. The inspiration that a great city can offer is thicker here; everybody is out on the street or on the subway, not hiding from one another in cars like they were on the west coast. My lifelong habit of eavesdropping is working overtime here; the pickings are thick and rich. 

Fall is the best time for staying in, warm and dry, and reading. I'm in a StoryBundle of radical science fiction with my collection, Big Girl. This is twelve books for very cheap, and includes work from Nisi Shawl, Vendana Singh, Nick Mamatas, Michael Moorcock, and more. 

The spooky season reaps some spectacular pumpkins this year. I wrote about one of my favorite movies about witches and the craft: The Craft. I also wrote about the dead man's bones I have embedded in my face, ketamine, and the fear of death. 

Time again to light candles and remember the dead, so I wrote about David. David left behind three widows, of which I was the least. I was grateful to share the work of grieving him with two other women, and I wanted to tell you about it. Grief is a more bearable emotion when it's shared. 

I've been working on some wonderful new stuff, which is the only cure I know for grief. Those yellow leaves outside my window were new green once, and new green will come again. Holding on to that cycle helps me roll with it, instead of letting it roll over me. 

The things I've read recently that I loved include the new anthology of Black Horror, "Out There Screaming," which has some blazing stand-outs from Tananrive Due, N.K. Jemisin, and Justin C. Key to name a few. Also loved Britney's memoir— watch for a forthcoming essay from me about Britney's nearness to death and how it all comes together in her book. 

Moving is exhausting and the days are short. I'm going to go back to watching the leaves fall and making the soups of my dreams. I hope your days are restful and that every book you read is as good as its blurb. 

Let it all fall down, 

Meg