I've just kind of been thrashing around writing down stuff as I think of it and trusting that the part of my brain that takes random bits of stuff and turns them into a story would eventually wake up from its nap and find uses for all the things I was providing it to play with. It's not how I write everything, but it does seem to be a trending process of mine currently, and hey, it works.
For example, when writing Bone & Jewel Creatures, I wrote a draft of the whole damned novella except the last twenty pages and then more or less ignored it for half a year or so. And then bang, figured out how it all had to hang together.
I dunno how this brain works. I just live in it. I'm sure it will be something else next novel. I never do manage to write any two books or stories the same way.
My favorites are the ones that fall out of my head pull-formed and perfect, but those are rare. By the Mountain Bound. "Lucifugous." "The Chains that You Refuse." "Sonny Liston Takes the Fall." Nice when it works out that way, though. Like story eggs dropped from God's hand into my head, requiring only some but in chair to turn them into works of art.
Those days, I really could believe in the Muse, except for the part where I can probably tell you which bit of my life or reading or rampant information-gathering each detail comes from.
Now, having fulfilled my quota, it's time to knock off, eat something, and watch last night's episode of Leverage. And maybe answer an email or two before I practice guitar and get ready to go to archery.
Or maybe I'll just fall asleep on the couch. I tell ya. The weather has broken, and I love living in New England. It's 72 and gorgeous.