January 29th, 2008

writing dust bible 'house of dust"

help me, obi-wan. you're my only hope.

Okay, I realize this makes me look like an unprofessional idiot, but four of five drafts and ten months later, I honestly cannot remember. And I think if I have to read that book again, there will be blood. And it will be mine.

And then you won't get to read the sequel.

At any point in Dust, does Tristen indicate his opinion of/relationship with Arianrhod, either by implication or express statement?

I know what I think he thinks, but I can't remember what he said.
iggy pop chairman of the bored

you will pray for me



563 words on Chill tonight. It's coming, though still slowly. Today, I wrote a short scene to bring us into chapter two. Tomorrow, I get to maybe start breaking things afresh (because every books needs its own bright shiny crop of broken things.)

Eke, eke, eke.

Sadly, I sort of need the book to eventually progress in something slightly faster than the current stately fashion, but there you have it. Right now, this is what I get: I grope through scraps for hours and find maybe a chip or a corner I can use. It is starting to snowball a little. It's bringing me ideas, occasionally, like jackdaw trinkets picked up along the roadside, and that's all to the good.

Now I have to figure out if Jsutien gets a POV this book, or if he suffers through without a chance to express himself. I think I may go with the latter, because for a book like this, I think four POVs might be enough, which means, alas, the youth remains a cipher. (The first book had three.)

Now, I know there are poeple out there who prefer books written in a single point of view, and to them I say, sorry. I am not the writer for you. In general, the immediate result of me trying to write a book in a single point of view is me having to go back and insert two or four other people's perspectives to make things comprehensible to people who are not me. I've done this enough times now (Blood & Iron and All the Windwracked Stars started off as single-narrator stories) that I like to think I'm proving myself capable of learning by just hanging that hat outside the door before we even get started. (Yes, A Companion to Wolves is a single-narrator story. You notice I had a co-author for that?)
comics bone stupid stupid rat creatures

Memo to me: Get off my back.

Yeah, so, the spreadsheet on which I track my writing productivity? The HUGE VAST CHASM OF NONPRODUCTIVITY I've been wallowing in, in which I accomplished nothing, oh nothing of merit!!! OH WOES I AM A FAILURE AS A RITER AND A HUMAN BEING?

Ten days. (Okay, there were two two-day periods before that when no writing got done, and one afterwards. But they were broken up by writing days between.)

During which I also cleared a set of CEMs. And helped bring the Shadow Unit stuff online.

Yeah. I really could use a slack injection, one of these lifetimes.

*rolls eyes at self and goes back to trying to figure out what that next scene might be*
lion in winter dalton love me

Dear universe:

For my next life, I have a very few requests.

1) I would like to be neurochemically normal, or at least passably so. (I know, I know, it's the disad trade for the weird-wired brain, and you can't have one without the other. Still, I had like four glorious weeks of neurochemical balance last fall, and wow, it has made me greedy.)
2) I would like not to be a trauma survivor. Or you know, I realize that everybody is a trauma survivor of one sort or another, but do you think you could maybe pick one or two things, rather than the 17 movies showing multiplex of fucked-up I got?
3) I would rather not be a prickly self-centered overdefended asshole.

Or if all three of those is too big a request for one incarnation, if I could just get it cut back to one or two?

Thanks,

much love,

Bear.


Functionally, what I think is going on right now is that I'm moving out of the anger phase of my grief over my PTSD, and into the despair phase.

And I know this is progress, on a geologic scale, and hey, denial lasted a good fifteen years. ("I'm fine." And everybody who knew me when I was twenty probably just wet themselves laughing.) So I should be pleased with myself that we're getting through all this faster now.

But you know what?

I fucking liked anger better.



I'm leaving comments active on this post, but I may not answer many. That's not about you, okay?