March 13th, 2003

bear by san

A Writer's Work is Never Done

Scardown is putting up a fight again. I got three more scenes out of it, bringing the manuscript up to 55 contiguous pages, and another seven pages of notes, scene bits, and dialogue bits. It's still not quite ripe. I think I'll wad it back into this bag and poke it again in a day or two.

It's nice to have the familiar old characters floating around my head again, at least. And I am getting random bits of plot threads: an assassination plot. Maybe something to do with the King of England. (that would be two different plot bits.) Things of that nature. I think I'm still in staring-into-space-and-listening-to-NPR mode. Maybe a few long walks and some dog wrestling. Still no hurry. I got me a nice pile of manuscripts to worry about, and I'm still not entirely done fussing at Bridge. And those two require entirely different headspaces, let me tell you.

Writing isn't easy. It's an all day, every day kind of thing in some respects--my brain is always fussing at stories. And I'm not so much blocked right now as empty.

I've been thinking lately about "doing things right," and the terrible necessity that that is. I wonder what I'm doing right, if anything. And what I could be doing better.

Sigh.

Writing is hard.

In other news, though, SFReader.com likes us.

ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL the way down at the bottom of this.
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bear by san

Stupid stupid stupid.

There's something you yell a second after you realize that you've just pinched the red-hot cover to the gas burner between the forefinger and thumb of your left hand, pursuant to pulling it out of the way to relight the pilot light with a match. You yell it during the sizzle, before the absolute searing agony has a moment to wind its way up your arm, trigger your reflexes, and jerk your hand (which sticks briefly to the black metal burner (which, unlike an electric burner, does not turn red when its hot) ) into the air so forcefully that your left shoulder hurts as if wrenched five hours later.

What you yell is: STUPID BITCH!

Ow.

I have a deep second degree burn on the pad of my thumb and a light second-degree burn on the pad of my forefinger (both about the size of a dime.) I will be fine. I worked my way through three icepacks and various nonscrip painkillers, and I now have nice tight Band-Aids full of lovely aloe-petroleum jelly-antibacterial stuff on them, because they hurt less under pressure.

But still.

Stupid bitch.

Oh, and I caved and notecarded the plot ideas I have for Scardown tonight. I have about 30-40 notecards, which describe the high points on something that very vaguely resembles a plot arc if I squint at it just right. It's not the plot I expected.

But it never is, is it?

It's so bizarre how one book totally resists outlining, but I always know what the next scene will be. And the next one stalls every fifteen steps unless I plan out a plot arc that it can cheerfully ignore.

Right. Writing. We do it because it's fun.

Right. Writing. We do it because it's fun.

Right. Writing. We do it because it's fun.
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