they're serving fish in the jailhouse tonight

Well, I suck.

jaylake claims I'm blogging live without a net, so I guess in the spirit of warblogging the Literary Life, I should probably out myself when I faceplant, too.

I'm not going to get this novella written, and yesterday, I had to tell the editor that.

I got nothing. I've got 3,000 words of snickering up my sleeve about butt-chinned heroes, and you know what? Dale Arden running off with Ming the Merciless at the end because Flash kind of has his head up his cloaca is just not enough payoff for 15,000 words of  pulpy fiction. It might be worth a tight little 4K, and I might still try to write that version, but I was thinking of ways to pad it out (I can get 3K out of a chase through a nebula!) and that's just lame.

And I caught myself, Friday night, thinking, "Well, it pays well."

And that's no reason to write a story. The fact that I promised to write the story is a good reason to write the story, but what I'm writing is lousy, then I'm not doing anyone any favors.

That way lies hackdom.

And I am sad about this, because I was excited about this anthology and excited to be working with this editor. And the Guilt Gorilla is having a field day with my on Failure To Meet Commitments issues.

But I got nothing.

I think I could have done it, if it hadn't been for the three CEMs and sets of galleys that landed on my desk last month, the April 15th due date on Dust when I was expecting, you know, August, and how badly it kicked my butt to try to work full time and write Undertow simultaneously, and then pile right into the last two thirds of New Amsterdam. I think I've hit a wall.

So I'm going to revise Dust, hand it in on time, and then I'll be under this rock for a while. Although not for too long, as I still have to revise Ink & Pen and rewrite All the Windwracked Stars by the end of October, and there are two writing workshops and a bunch of conventions between now and then.

Wow, I suck.