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bear by san

March 2017

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rengeek fucking silence

i was the seventh son of a seventh son.

Malcolm Gladwell with an initially interesting but in the long term somewhat tiresome examination of the difference between prodigy and genius. 

I didn't realize this was news? I've always heard that novelists and poets are supposed to peak in their fifties.



I've shoveled out my email inbox, eaten some applesauce, made coffee, and put some squash in the oven to bake with apple cider, cinnamon, and maple syrup. I love this time of year.

I guess we're to the "Open manuscript and stare mournfully" portion of the morning.

It's a beautiful cool day, and there are finally roofers out fixing the house across the street that tried to burn down earlier this summer.

Comments

I guess we're to the "Open manuscript and stare mournfully" portion of the morning.

Right there with ya. *Sigh*
Maybe if I stare long enough, the blood drops forming on my forehead will fall forcefully on the keys, and eventually produce prose...
Maybe?
"I've always heard that novelists and poets are supposed to peak in their fifties."


(As someone who was expected to be a prodigy and, er, wasn't -- I gotta say this is the best news I've ever heard in m life.)
I was a prodigy, but I got distracted by major life crises from ages 8-25, and had to regroup. Imagine how relieved I feel! *g*

I think I'd rather peak late. Who wants to spend their entire life waiting for the Nobel Committee to get around to rewarding you for the brilliant work you did when you were 25?
i was thinking this same thing. working your whole life towards excellence seems better to me than peaking young and spending the rest of your life trying to create something comparable and failing.
"I guess we're to the "Open manuscript and stare mournfully" portion of the morning."

Another day's work and I can finally get to grips with the nearly-overdue page proofs that are waiting for me to finish dragging my hero through a hedgeful of zombies, backwards. 102,000 words (give or take) in 33 days.

Y'know what? I envy you your pain. There's nothing quite so claustrophobic as a novel that's winding down from its climax.
Hah! I've been biting my thumb at your progress for weeks. *g* You know how many 5K+ days I've had in my life? I remember each one individually. I could count them.

I envy you more than you envy me, I suspect. I *love* finishing things. It is the whole reason I write.
Believe me, these are the first 5K+ days I've had on any kind of regular basis since, um, 2004. I normally consider 1K to be a solid day's work -- this has taken me somewhat by surprise!

(I know: I can work on the pitch for book #4 in this series :)
1K is a solid day's work. 2K is faaaabulous.

And then there's Jay.
"I've shoveled out my email inbox, eaten some applesauce, made coffee, and put some squash in the oven to bake with apple cider, cinnamon, and maple syrup. I love this time of year."

Somehow my Friday-addled brain read this as "I've eaten my inbox with maple syrup..." and all I could do was blink.