September 17th, 2003

bear by san

God, please don't make me put my pants on.

I went to bed at 9:30 last night and still had to drag my butt out of bed this morning. I do not like this slow-developing illness that leaves me feeling like I'm really not all that sick, really. And then wallops me onna head.

Because I feel guilty for complaining because I'm really NOT all that sick: only a light cough, mild sore throat, minor headache, muscle aches I almost don't notice unless I'm notdoing anything else, slightly stuffy nose. I'm really not all that sick. But man is it sapping my will to live and making me feel like a whiner.

And I have to get up and get dressed and go to work now, when I just want to go back to bed.

I'm almost caught up on crits. I may start doing a few pay it forwards, in fact. And there's a buttload of A&A mail to get through: we seem to have taken another jump in submission frequency. (Reminds me, must talk to Jenn. Memo to me, memo to me.)

Still feeling rather geeked to know what happens next in SM.

People tell you you have to write every day to be a professional writer. That's not precisely true, I think. But I do, in fact, write every day. Sometimes marathon sessions. Sometimes a hundred words. When I'm noveling, I try to get 1500 words a day on the primary project. And it has to be fiction, for me: blogging and correspondence don't count.

What happens, though, is that writing every day, once you're in the habit, becomes like daily exercise. If you don't do it, you miss it, and it starts to nag at you. Which is actually why I'm taking a week-long break from SM at the (mumble) 175K mark, right now, even though my guiltmonkey is starting to get a deathgrip on me. And I'm starting to itch. It's terrible. I'm an addict. I have not-writing DTs.

I have to let the well refill sometime, or what starts coming out is muddy and undrinkable. So to speak.

And now I have to go to work. Bah.
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bear by san

Once upon a time in Mexico

I do have pants on but I didn't go to work after all, and I'm drinking Good Earth warm & spicy tea by the metric butt ton.

Kit made me go see Once Upon A Time In Mexico on Sunday. (I think he has a crush on Johnny Depp. Which is more pleasant for me than Jenny's crush on R. Lee Ermey, so I can live with it.) It actually wasn't as bad as I feared, although it bogged down in the middle, and there wasn't nearly enough Salma Hayek.

Is there ever enough Salma Hayek?

It was sort of like The Massacre At Paris, only with less plot.

Kit has a thing for pretty dark-haired boys, apparently. I'm not shocked.


Considering what I said yesterday about smoke and mirrors, here's my bit o' synchronicity for today:

Readers, after all, are making the world with you. You give them the materials, but it's the readers who build that world in their own minds.
--Ursula K. LeGuin

(Today's "Writer's Daily Quote.")


Time for more tea.

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bear by san

Reading and Writing Maunderings

I'm reading the first Jim Butcher "Harry Dresden" book, and enjoying it. (Just keeping up on my stablemates). It's a nicely built world. The writings a little more transparent and the characterization a little more on-the-nose than I like, but what I like isn't necessarily the most commercial stuff out there, and this is much more engaging than most of what I've read on the popular end of SFF lately.

My husband bought the whole run the other day. He never does anything by half-measures.

Of course, in some ways, this is bad, because it's got me thinking about the books I eventually want to write on the human perspective of what happens after Bridge of Blood & Iron. And all the stuff I want to do with Kelpie and with One-eyed Jack. And whether those universes (The Stratford Man/Bridge of Blood & Iron/Glass of Rain universe and the One-eyed Jack & the Suicide King universe) are actually the same universe, after all.

As I suspect they are.

And I don't need to be planning a series out four or five books ahead when I haven't rewritten the first one to make it marketable yet. Still, I have a lot of stories to tell about those guys--the Fae, the Prometheans, and all the people caught in between them. I suspect that one could go on for a very long time: it's such a varied universe. There's the possibility for a Victorian book (Yeats! Crowley! Railroads! Irene Adler! The Tsavo Lions! (hee. I could bring back Magnus!) ), and there's also the potential for a little something revolving around Keats, Byron, and the Shelleys. In addition to bucketloads of second-world urban fantasy taking place more or less in the here-and-now.

And then there's the Eddas. And the science fiction stuff. Oh, so many ideas. So little time.