And in addition to some prose-style updates since the last time I pimped it (and of course the eternal livejournal drama), there is new art up on the Shadow Unit site. (Yes, I know, I said I wasn't going to keep fussing at you about it, but Amanda's work makes me so happy I have to brag her up sometimes.) Besides, now you can really see why the entire world spends large portions of its time trying to force food on Hafidha and Chaz.
502 words on Chill tonight, and still kind of groping my way forwards. Scene-setting, picking up with old characters where we left them off. Groping our way. Two thousand words is probably enough for chapter one, and I have found a Killer Closing Line, though I think perhaps the scene it ends could use more cowbell and possibly even a little roller derby.
It's nice to be working.
And if it wants to come slow, well, let it. It can come slow. We have time yet. Man, where did I leave my mojo? There is no flow: there is only picking over stones, looking for nuggets of story and fiddling them around until, perhaps, they turn up a shiny facet or flash of color. Panning for narrative.
But I'm not hating the work, though I don't feel like it has an engine in it yet.
Not hating the work kind of feels like a triumph right now, which--I keep reminding myself--is good enough for now. I'm still spending way too much time fussing at it rather than writing it--part of the problem with not having the engine yet is that I'm not feeling the pull of the story, so I tend to go in and fuss with each sentence kind of excessively. And you know, it's not like I'm not going to be over this book twenty more times. If I write a bad sentence, it's not the end of the world.
But as long as the story isn't pushing to get out, the editor gets very very picky.
Also, via pecunium, a somewhat addictive flash game that allows you to play with floral evolution. Seed
Chaz should actually be a little browner than that (in the original, he is) but he's suffering jpeg bleaching, poor dear. Even file compression protocols fall prey to the Caucasian Assumption (or possibly this image was taken midwinter.). Which, I guess, is better than vitiligo.