throw another bear in the canoe

Polyphony reject today. Guess I was a first-read victim. Not really surprised--it seems to be a market more hones toward the Golden Wavelet of the Stylemonkeys. I can write pretty, but a stylemonkey, I ain't.

I got ambitious after work today and did a little manuscript/market juggling, and figured out how to get four more subs out. Two are to quick markets, so I'll have them back next week, but the pile in "pale green--waiting for market" on my submissions spreadsheet was getting out of control. So I have envelopes or emails going to Alchemy, F&SF, SH, and Realms of Fantasy today, putting my total-subs-out back up to 15, counting the novel.

Which means that by the time I'm ready to send "Wane" out, F&SF should have cleared the dreamy little magic realism piece I expect they'll hate, and I can swap. And then send the dlmr piece to SH once they kick back the heroic fantasy I expect they will hate.

This, by the way, is known as "letting the editor do the rejecting instead of rejecting yourself." I don't actually expect these markets to buy these particular stories, but you never know: ideomancer doesn't buy heroic fantasy, and they bought mine.

So, left to do today, the slush and the wordcount.

Lookit me being productive. Something to be said for a crappy economy after all.

1298 words on Treachery of Princes and the next scene is burning a hole in my pocket, but I am too tired to write it. No words on Scardown, which is stalled around 40K currently because I dunno how to get from here to there just yet.

Still, plenty of time to finish. And no hurry to get it done, currently.

And I am going to bed. Two nights of inadewuate sleep in a row (please note, I consider 5-6 hours to be "normal," so when I say inadequate I mean it) have taken their toll.

Here is some of what I wrote today-- rough draft:

The beast reeked of pine and musk, a cloying scent Vladimir imagined he'd be smelling on his jacket for a week. It lowered its massive head before the slender princess and sniffed her boots before attempting to shoulder past her like a cow singlemindedly headed for the manger. She stepped left and obstructed its course. It snuffled again, moved ponderously right--ponderously, but it did not rustle the dried leaves under its enormous paws.

Gijs moved to block it again. Once, twice--like a dance, Vladimir thought, admiring the courage and grace of a girl he'd rather thought he hated. Before the thing simply brushed her aside, knocked her down with no more than a gesture, and shouldered toward the rest of the group.

Good night, Austin Texas, wherever you are.