Writing was easier when I just did it, instinctively. However, I was a lot worse at it then. Now it's all balance and consciousness and art and craftsmanship, and it takes total focus and concentration. And I have been way too busy with other stuff lately, and unable to devote the kind of time and solitude that makes the writing happen easier. Even four hours in the car yesterday don't seem to have helped, which is frustrating, because usually driving is a great time to figure out what's going on in a book.
And then once the draft is complete, there is only the revision. And I'm having a bad case of oh, but it's not as pretty as I wanted it to be right now. Also, I ache a lot, and my throat hurts.
But I am determined. Oh, so determined. And so, I am going to go buy a bottle of wine for tonight, because I have decided that my cold and I are staying home and hanging out on the internets rather than going to parties. And then I am going to come home and clean my filthy pigsty and listen to music for a while, and then I am going to see if this story would rather be written in longhand, because for some reason (maybe that pens are nice to hold) stories written in longhand are often less boring and terrible than stories that are typed.
No, I have no idea why that is.
Tomorrow, I need to do laundry. But tonight, I am finishing this goddamned book. (which is a novella, not a novel. But it's still a book.)
And now for something completely different:
Cthulhu, the Movie.