January 25th, 2015

massive hangover ogham

there is no ghost in the machine. there's just you and me.

This is a new icon, which is from a 9th century Irish manuscript, and says "Massive Hangover" in Ogham.

Actually, it says, "Ale has killed us," but it's the spirit of the thing.

I've written around 16000 words in the past seven days, and I'm unbelievably wiped. But I've delivered one of the immediately pressing projects, at least in draft, and now Tomorrow Is A Rest Day.

I have finished a whole pile of stuff for Worldspinner this week, and also done a ridiculous amount of promo writing for the Karen Memory launch, which is only a week and two days away! (And this Tuesday, during which we are expecting a snowpocalypse that should make up for not getting almost any snow at all this winter, is at long last the trade paperback of Shattered Pillars, so yay, buy my book.)

At least it's a day without too much typing. Because I have to work out the plotlines of two stories--the sargasso lighthouse story and the robot termite story--which are the next two deadlines. Also, half-marathon in Texas next weekend, which due to a combination of insufficient world reserves of willpower, work, travel, and a kind of nagging but not very severe virus the couple weeks after New Year's, I am totally unprepared for.

And then I have Boskone, and after Boskone truepenny will give me back the welves (casacorona has come back with an edit letter, and Sarah gets the first pass, and then it goes into the secret grinding heart of Tor Books to be made into hardcovers)

Sometimes, you just have to get your teeth in and keep gnawing and gnawing and gnawing until you gnaw the heart out of the thing. Like a fox with a really big Spartan to get through.

Since it's been a while since we shared some chatroom antics, here they are:

fadethecat: *squints* I wonder if someone holding a grief with their recently-grieved chest is crying in their grieving heart, or if someone holding a grief with their recently-grieved chest is drying up in their grieving heart.
fadethecat: Oh, Hesiod.
hawkwing_lb: *votes for drying up their grieving cavities*
fadethecat: (For extra fun, none of those three iterations of grief look remotely the same. No one does synonyms like the Greeks!)
fadethecat: Well, the textbook translation agrees.
fadethecat: I just thought crying made more sense.
hawkwing_lb: grief is conceived of in the medical writers as astringent, so.
hawkwing_lb: drying!
hawkwing_lb: (ancient Greeks: weird.)
matociquala: Oh, THAT'S what's in those little packets.
matociquala: No wonder it says DO NOT EAT.
hawkwing_lb: do not eat grief.
hawkwing_lb: leads to indigestion
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dainty as a dishrag. faithful as a chow.

Apparently I am in the middle of a cycle of stories taking the piss out of academia. I finished one already this year--"The Bone War"--and it's a central theme of the thing I'm contributing to Worldspinner. And I'm finally getting some traction on "On Safari in R'lyeh and Carcosa with Gun and Camera," a story I have been working on literally since 1989.

I also have a thing called "And The Balance in Blood," that'll be finished as soon as I think of a climax, and a snarky-ass library story that has no title yet, but it does have an epigraph: 

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”

? Jorge Luis Borges

Of course, none of these are the things that are due in January and February.

Of course not. Those are still looking for plots.

(I've been cooking a bunch too, as writing breaks--tomato soup and purple sweet potato biscuits yesterday, green tea agar (it's delicious with rosemary simple syrup), and today a batch of standuponit's root veggie muffins and some tangerine cream cheese spread to go on them.)

Here, have some pictures of tea. I've been using my beloved and cracked Royal Doulton irises teacup for days, for the moral support, so there's not going to be a lot of variation. *g*



And here, have a bonus picture of my dog.