November 25th, 2007

writing rengeek stratford man

fans jumped up and the Finn jumped too

513 words on Hell & Earth today, which were mostly turning some expo into an epistle. Now I have to figure out how to repair this great big patch of suck in the middle of the book, and then there's a smaller patch of suck at the end of the book that also needs fixed.

The big patch of suck is harder, because honestly I glossed over a bit there because I have no idea how to make it work, and my editor called me on it, as is her job.


Still no idea how to get there. Also, a case of terminal lazy punky donwanna post-holiday exhaustion and brain-death seems to have me in its throes, and writing, right now, is notso attractive. Still, part of being a professional is writing the fucking thing even when you don't want to. And when it's done, I can hand it in, and maybe Jessica will give me the nice delivery moneys and I will not have to eat the cat come January.

In other news, I provide really high-quality SO material for my characters, if I do say so myself. I think my author should get on the stick and send me some, just to make sure the karmic balance is maintained. Alas, I fear that I am in a literary novel.

Unfortunately, lately, it seems like all the cute ones are either taken, or made of fiction, or very far away. I'd consider getting my sex drive turned off, a la Bruce Sterling characters, except that doesn't do anything for the hair-petting deprivation.

I wonder if I can get a boy who's made of fiction sent to my house to pet my hair.

They're so much tidier than the real boys....
spies mfu facepalm napoleon

Sound Trumpets within, and then all crye vive le Roy two or three times.

Growf. I am in the uneviable position of knowing what work this scene needs to do, and not having any idea what happens in it, or who the Bearer of Bad But Useful News might be.

I would consider walking down to the coffee shop with my notebook, on the theory that a change of venue might give me some inspiration, but I don't feel like putting on shoes. (In fact, my stated goal for today is not to answer the phone or unlock my front door.)


I could do the coffee shop thing on Monday or Tuesday, though.
writing rengeek stratford man

what shall i tell you my brother, my killer?

And done. Which means the rest of the day is a time for heavy drinking, overeating, and casual sex with farm animals watching the Muppets and accepting the fact that my freaking brain is scraped.

Oh, gawd. Wow. I can't believe this monster is finally done.

I mean, yeah, there's still the possibility Jessica will send it back to me and say "do it over, you suck." And there is CEMs and the galleys to get through.

But wow.

It hasn't really sunk in yet that this damned thing is out of the house. I think I kind of thought it would never see print.

Hey, truepenny? cheshyre?

Thanks, guys.

And thanks to the rest of you, too, both those who pitched in to help make it a real book, and those who have listened to me maunder about it since early 2003.

I declare myself on vacation until January, except I have to write "Wind Up Boogeyman" and finish "King Pole, Gallows Pole, Bottle Tree." (ONE DAMN SCENE.)

The two novellas and the revision on By The Mountain Bound are just gonna wait until after I write Chill, at this point. (Now that I know what I need to do to BTMB, I am calm about the revision. It won't be a big deal, I think. casacorona, if you have any other notes than the ones you gave me already, kick them on over at your leisure?)

Now I'm gonna get me a sammich. And a nap.
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