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bear by san

March 2017



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writing dust bible 'house of dust"

i heard it in my sleep, a voice more dead than old


words since 9:00 AM Saturday: 554 1008 1761, and the end of Chapter 18. One chapter to go. I am averaging the raging pace of 2/3rds of a page an hour. Yeah, somebody come tell me I'm a fast writer now.
sleep since 9:00 AM Saturday: 0
hours in deathmarch so far: 9.5
showers: 1
pages written: 9
pots coffee: 1 (with some vanilla ground up in it)
large mugs salabat:
pots tisane:
pots tea:
1 (white chai)
It Came From The Juicer: Beet greens, garlic, and radishes. Apple lemonade (1 Granny Smith, 1 Macintosh, 2 Braeburns from the bruised fruit bin; one peeled lemon). Which was awesomely good.  
drugs: 800 mg. naproxen, 1 OTC Zantac
dancing: in the light!
handfuls of nutritional supplements: 1 (fish oil, evening primrose, calcium, b complex, glucosamine chondroitin)
food: corned beef hash and eggs; layer cake;
stomach: solid
BPAL: Jacob's Ladder, of course.
mug: kitty in a file drawer
state of the catbox: questionable
laundry situation: less desperate, as I have hand-washed some undies

Sigh. Still no helpful hypomanic focus. You know, I'm stuck with the fucked up brain chemistry, you would think it could at least show up and punch the damned clock when it would be adaptive.

This book will not catch fire. You know, the entire novel has been The Dreaded Middle Of The Book. Every inch of it. I feel like I'm fighting the seige of Leningrad. But finally, here, in the last thirty pages, I am figuring out stuff I wish I had known on like, page 0. Which will come in handy in the second draft, because now the first draft is full of bracket notes.

In other news, I can tell that I'm grinding my way to the end of the novel, because all of those damned short stories that have been stuck like stuck things are showing up and flashing their ankles. But I did just figure out useful things to do with both "Snow Dragons" and "The Horrid Glory Of Her Wings."

Grind, grind, grind.


If we who have the f'd up brain chemistry could trigger it on demand, we'd make a fortune. You're doing amazingly well without it - and yes, 2/3rds of a page per hour damn well is blazingly fast for original fiction!

Go Bear Go!
Actually, it's a snail's pace, compared to most of my colleagues. And endless frustration of mine, especially when people try to tell me how speedy I am. :-P One of the things that's really guaranteed to get up my nose every time.
When I run apples through the juicer I plop a TBSP of peanut butter in there too - I know it sounds yucky but really is quite delicious.
Why would it be yucky? Apples with peanut butter on them is yummy.
Ew. I think it's horrifically gross. I don't want fat in my thirst-quencher, thanks. *g* Apples and peanut butter are acceptable, but juice should not coat the throat. :-P

Also, I can't imagine it's great for the juicer.
No, you juice the apples, then you plop in some of the yummy apple pulp, then some peanut butter. Of course, it's no longer juice but Something Else. With peanut butter.
I guess if you really liked peanut butter and gritty apple juice I could see that. You can have mine. *g*

(The only fatty foods I really like are bacon and cheese. Other than that, the mouthfeel gets to me. And I dislike peanuts. Peanut butter is okay as long as it's the kind that tastes like molasses, not peanuts.)
Mmmm bacon. I suppose you know about this sort of thing already:
Yeah, I'll skip that too.
I am surrounded by squeamish teenagers here - I guess I'm accustomed to having to up-sell any food recommendations.
I'll take your word for it. I can understand why it would be a huge frustration to be told that, though. All right; I'll amend: for me (and I do write, I've just never had the nerve to try for publication) it would be fast. :)
Sorry - this was meant as a reply to your response.
Thanks. *g*

Just, yeah. I wish I could somehow explain to people that when somebody is thrashing and struggling for all they're worth, one does not tell 'em it's obviously easy and speedy for them. Or they might hit one with a pie.
Heh. Yeah. My grandmother was a poet (published, back during WWII). I once heard a conversation between her and her best friend that ran along the lines of "Writing is so easy for you it's incredible, Rae!" To which Gram responded "Yes, if piercing your veins to write in your own blood is easy."

Which is to say that even if it sounds fast to me doesn't mean I've any delusion that it's easy!
Yeah. And I'm already bitter about how long this book has taken and how much I hate it. *g*
Would it help to plan on printing out the chapter that made you craziest and throwing it across the room, burning it, or otherwise demonstrating what you think of it? :-)
Sorry. I think I've gotten annoying; I never intended that. I'll go watch quietly now.

Hang in there, Bear.
*g* I'm a horribly prickly person, and I tend to trigger all over unsolicited advice or caretaking. It's not you.
I tend to trigger all over unsolicited advice or caretaking.

So do many of us; it's a familiar pattern. The "advice" was intended in jest, though. One of those times when tone not coming through in print matters.
*note to self*: don't gush at Bear when next you get to see her about how much you're looking forward to book, nor (after having read book) how much you liked it, etc.
Anytime. ;)
Ugh, yeah, that last part I totally relate to. I was grinding painfully through a rewrite of my first novel before I started the second and I was lucky to get a paragraph I liked out of a day of work...

Then I take a break and start the second novel's first draft (which rolls along at an unheard of for me at least pace of about 1k words an hour) and the parts I was getting totally stuck on in the first bloody rewrite suddenly all want to fill my head with image chatter. Brains are so weird.

You're almost there. Grind it like nutmeg :)
Seeeeeriously. When you finish this book, I will throw you a durn party, because you will be /rid of it/.

Go deathmarch. (Though I'm sorry you have the uninteresting and wearying half of the bipolar/PTSD equation, just now.)
You know, the entire novel has been The Dreaded Middle Of The Book. Every inch of it. I feel like I'm fighting the seige of Leningrad.

I hear your whine and raise you an entire series -- at least, from volume 3 onwards (I'm now grimly hacking my way through volume 6) -- that's in the same mode. It seems to be an occupational hazard of trilogy-and-series work.

Only another 100,000 words to go and I can bury it at a crossroads with a mouthful of garlic and a telegraph pole through its heart ...

On the upside: after my September/October run I managed to get rid of the performance anxiety -- I can still crank out the good stuff at speed. Which is a consoling thought. If you work the same way as me, you might want to take enough time off to zap out a couple of those stories, just to remind yourself you can still do it.

And the hard ones to write don't necessarily read as bad as they felt during the writing: all that effort has to go somewhere.

Edited at 2008-11-23 11:20 am (UTC)
Don't forget to sew its lips shut.

And man, I hope you are right about that last sentence.