On the other hand, I got everything else done except the writing, and two chores that need to wait until Monday. I know what I want the next Bears Examining to be on, but genius has not yet struck as to a novel approach. And I have no idea how the short story ends, and a three-page short story needs a killer ending, because that's all it's got.
So I guess I'm off-duty for the rest of the day.
Oh, there's some potential good news on the Promethean Age front, by the way, but I'm not sure how much or what of it I'm allowed to tell folks yet, so you will all have to wait until I get some clarification from my shiny new Roc editor, who is apparently a model of efficiency.
You know, I wish my fiction brain would regenerate a little faster. I have three or four short stories that I would really like to write, because I nearly know all about them. But it's not going to happen right now.
Writing is exhaustive of the self. Once you scrape out what's in there--as you do in the course of writing a novel--you have to fill it back up again before you can take any more out. I'm generally fortunate in that my well fills up fast, and pretty soon I will be full of stories, but right now all I have is a to-do list with a bunch of incomplete stories on it, and the fretful sensation that I should be working, you damned layabout.
Stories, for me, cook up kind of like soup. You keep them simmering back there, tossing things in, adjusting the seasoning--and one day, magically, they are ready to serve. Currently, the damned things are being recalcitrant about coming together, so we're eating a lot of crackers and looking mournful.
Of course, the only solution to this is to cram more story-stuff into one's head and wait for it to find the appropriate pot.
So if anybody wants me, I will be inside a book for the remaining hours of the evening. Which is a little bit better than being under a rock.