I'm contemplating writing a quantum mechnics story dealing with the possibility of subatomic communication with the future.
Or the past.
ie, there's this nifty thing about quantum theory where time travel *is* possible, on a very small scale. You can zap particles--or more precisely, particles can zap themselves--through time, as long as they only do it for a very little while. (I used to date a physicist fairly seriously. He was a smart boy. He once told me that in his opinion, quantum mechanics was the only thing in physics that admitted a possibility of free will. Which is something I still mean to write a story about one of these lifetimes, too. Hmm. I bet it's the same story.)
Anyway, I'm thinking about that now when I should be reading Cap's novel and working on my own. Or maybe standing under a very hot shower for half an hour until my neck hurts less.
I had a dream last night--and I very rarely remember my dreams, because I'm of the five-six hard blank hours school of sleeping--that I was holding an uncorrected bound galley of Hammered in my hands. Since the novel hasn't sold yet, but I just delivered the third draft of the sequel to my agent last week, and the final book in the it's-not-a-trilogy is brewing in the back of my head, I'm hoping that's a good sign.
Also, I realized that I can probably finish my draft of The Stratford Man by Thanksgiving if I work my ass off. Which would mean I could get a completed second draft to Jenn by the end of the year (I can already taste her fear), and still goof off and play with shorts and think about how I'm going to revise Bridge of Blood And Iron and what I want to do with Worldwired for at least a month and still meet my goal of two completed novel-length MS this year.
Hell, SM is about two completed novel-length MS on its own.
Assuming, of course, that I shower and get my butt in gear and get some of Hugo read this morning for Cap. And drink some tea.