The things I suffer for my art. Platypus, I hope you appreciate my sacrifices.
I dunno if my brain is growing back at all yet. I feel like such a slacker, currently--there's so much I could (should) be working on right now dammit, and yet, no work is happening. You'd think I could at least be reading a book or making some coherent use of my time but really all I'm doing is litening to the brain squirrels, trying to defend as much alone-time as possible while still being available to my friends and family (and cat), and playing Bejeweled while watching old Mission: Impossible episodes. I'm still dying over the one where Jim Phelps is the honey trap. I had forgotten Jim was willing to peddle his body for his country.
Also, Anthony Zerbe is following me. He was smouldering rather unsettlingly at Martin Landau in one of last night's eps, and I'm pretty sure he was (uncredited) in last week's SU. He's another one of those actors whom you recognize, and even kind of like, but can never really believe it's him when you see him. Although with that nose and voice--
For those of you haven't experienced post-novel ennui, it's very like the sensation one has after finishing a thesis or an enormous project bid or finals week or getting married or shooting a movie. It's such a long, sustained, multivalent effort that it just leaves you kind of scattered afterwards. Scraped out, a little hollow. I am a leaf.
And I keep thinking, but I didn't write a novel last fall. I only wrote one book in 2007, and it was done by April! Why am I feeling like this? Doesn't the story engine know i have deadlines? Hello in there, story engine! Wakey wakey!
But of course, I did write a novel--or half of one, anyway, and collaborations really are not appreciably less work than writing a book alone. Just much more fun. So Refining Fire counts, and I should give myself credit for it--and man, was that book emotionally exhausting, for reasons that will (assuming all goes on schedule and according to plan) become plain to you all while I am at WisCon and unable to enjoy the reactions. (coffeeem, shetterly, you guys get to revel in them for stillsostrange and truepenny and me.)
And before that, I rewrote All the Windwracked Stars literally from scratch. From the word go. Which should probably count as writing a novel, honestly. And before that, Dust.
And in between, I wrote several short stories, and I revised Dust and All the Windwracked Stars and Refining Fire, and I did (heavy, exhausting) revisions on Ink & Steel and Hell & Earth, and I wrote several long novelettes or short to medium-sized novellas--"King Pole, Gallows Pole, Bottle Tree," "Knock on Coffins," "Overkill" (which still needs revised) and "Bone & Jewel Creatures." (which still needs revised. And actually, most of the climactic scene written, but damned if I know how they're getting out of this one, or even if the last half of the story is any good.) And a significant amount of notfiction, too.
So I look at that and think, Bear, honey, I realize that you tend to try to stack yourself up against jaylake and mizkit. But you can't. The fact that that's a trivial exercise of words for them doesn't mean that it is for you, and you have a right to be tired. You did a heaping year's work in 2007.
You were a brave and mighty Bear who has slain many words, and you, you know, can give yourself a break.
The guilt gorilla, though. She never listen. She just fuss at me and say, "Why you not working, monkey??? You ought to be WORKING!" She's nearly as pushy as the cat, that gorilla.
And then there are those ticking deadlines.
All right. On that note, I think it's time I folded the laundry that's hung up all over the apartment, drying, and took a shower and made some tea. And played some more Bejeweled or something.
God, I get so bored when my brain is full of empty like this.