February 25th, 2007

writing dust rengeek shakespeare

everyone's a liar baby and that's the truth

Gothic novels are fun.

Gothic novels where the crumbling old house is replaced by a derelict generation ship?

Yeah baby.

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."
  • Current Music
    Tom Waits - All The World Is Green / Gary Numan - The Angel Wars
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bear by san

ever since their wings got rusted even the angels wanna wear my red shoes

And 930 words last night and 1071 words before 8:30 AM this morning, for a total of 2001. Now I get a shower and to wash the dishes, which are piled up in the sink, and then I get to find some hot beverage and food.

The manuscript stands at 339 pages. 10 pages since last check in. It's actually gotten fun again, now that I know how it ends, and I'm looking forward to writing all this stark, beautiful angst leading up to the final heartbreaking sacrifice.

And maybe blow up the world.

Well, some of you were complaining an awful lot about so-called happy endings... *g*

Also, I'm coming down with a bit of a cold. Which means that after the Hartford Flower Show trip this afternoon, I have an excuse to hole up and not leave the house until Thursday night. (Yeah, exercise tends to fall by the wayside for the last couple of weeks of book-finishing. It is so. So does housework, eating real meals, chores, maintaining relationships, bill-paying, and all the rest of it. GO AWAY IM RITIN.)
spies mfu hustle napoleon & albert our a

the angels fly around in there but we can't see them


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.
  • Current Music
    it aches in every bone. i'll die alone.
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bear by san

(no subject)

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.
  • Current Music
    Earlies - One Of Us Is Dead
writing literature vonnegut

things I learned about art today:

You know, everything has already been done.

All you can do as an artist is, when it's your turn, do your damnedest to tear the cord out of the motherfucking wall.

  • Current Music
    David Bowie - The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell
can't sleep books will eat me

the moon is yellow silver, the things that summer brings

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.
  • Current Music
    Azure Ray - No Sign of Pain
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writing gorey earbrass unspeakable horro

I'm all for compassion but not on my dime.

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.
  • Current Music
    Gary Numan - Absolution
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