Gothic novels are fun.
Gothic novels where the crumbling old house is replaced by a derelict generation ship?
Also, this book allows me to write lines like: She looked around for an escape, or perhaps a pot of coffee.
On to the forced marriage, and the bitter bitter end!
Also, Perceval is about to be sore tempted.
If all goes right, I might get out of this book by next weekend!
One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.
--Conrad Aiken, The House of Dust
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
--T.S. Eliot, "Ash Wednesday."
Another 498 words, and with it that thing that always happens, were I realize I am at the end. In fact, I might only have two chapters left.
Maybe three, if this takes longer than I expect.
Then, of course, there's an awful lot of going back to fix things....
Well, all right then.
I think I'm going to eat a muffin and chill out for a while.
also, you can tell I am tired. because the homophone typos are taking over. (see last post for an example.)
soon, soon I will get to the end of the book and then I will fall over in a stupor for a couple of days.
it is amazing how stupid writing a novel can make you. and how long it takes to recover.
Pursuant to a discussion in chat on how our tolerances have changed as we've learned how to tell stories, apparently what happens to people when they learn to write is sort of odd.
One learns that it is actually functionally impossible to get all the details right, and so (while one becomes ever more meticulous about the fact checking in one's own work) when one catches another in a factual error or a continuity goof, one stops worrying about it much. I mean, okay, blow a character's eye color or a detail of police procedure?
Who cares! It's so minor it's not even on the radar, and you've done it a thousand times yourself. You shrug and move on. Nobody can be an expert on everything. (This doesn't stop you from wanting to die when you do it yourself, of course.)
On the other hand? You become an absolute Nazi about narrative structure and characterization and narrative drive.*
Because that stuff? Is important.
Whether Mary Sue's eyes are green or violet is so far down the page it's hard to even remember to care.
In other news, I should be working on Chapter 26. And I am just too tired to care about that also.
I think that means I'm officially sick. And won't be staying up.
And this blog has gotten really freaking boring. Man.
*Also, if you ask a room full of writers, "Hey, is this a plot hole?" they will have seventeen different explanations for how it could have worked.
Because, um. That is how we have our fun.
That, and solving whodunnits in the second reel based on the camera angles.
Man, I hate transitions.
Still, no way through it but brute force. Eventually I will get to the fun stuff again.
Hmm. Something tells me that the traditional end-of-book erratic whiny short-subject blogging
is about to commence has in fact commenced.
Apologies in advance.