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bear by san

March 2017



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bear by san

Progress Notes

Words (Worldwired) :1387

Total words: 20483. I'm officially a fifth of the way done with the book, which is estimated at between 105K-110K toal length. It may stretch out as long as 115K, but it doesn't get to be any longer than that. This is an exciting place in the story: I'm almost done with the setup and reminders and reintroductions, and am about to kick the various plots (it has three intertwining plot threads for the ensemble to wrestle) into low gear for the long but hopefully not slow grumble-stumble up the roller-coaster hill. I expect it will hit the downslope around page 350, if I'm feeling the story right. I'm still not sure what blows up at the end, but I have the denouements figured out--both of them--and I actually think the big final conflict in this book will be on a smaller scale than the one in Scardown. Well, smaller scale in terms of more personal and less global, but hopefully not smaller scale in its impact on the reader.

MS Page: 80. Barely. By the skin of my teeth. Out of 89 total.

Reason for stopping: natural breakpoint, although whether I'm going to take the scene break the characters just handed me and switch to a new POV for some action going on in a different location, then come back to these guys--or just continue with this conversation and then go give Leslie a POV, I haven't decided yet.

Tea: Earl Grey, which has gone cold on me.

Average words per day since 4/23/04: 868.2

I write much, much more slowly than I used to, with a lot more pauses for thought and getting up and walking away for a while, and it takes me much longer to settle into a writing groove (for example, tonight it took me about three hours of poking to get the first page and a half, and then I did the other four and a half pages or so in about 45 minutes). However, what I'm turning out these days is much tighter prose, very close to finished, so I think it's a fair trade off.

It occurs to me that I should probably get in the habit of thinking of myself as a real writer some time soon, since I'm walking the walk and all. *g*


It occurs to me that I should probably get in the habit of thinking of myself as a real writer some


I don't think that ever really happens. Well, maybe when you're at the top of the NYT bestseller list and can quit the day job :-P

Are we still up for Ann Arbor, MI? I'll totally go, assuming taking the extra days off work doesn't bankrupt me :)



Re: It occurs to me that I should probably get in the habit of thinking of myself as a real writer s

I don't think I'm going to be able to manage the road trip, alas. :-P Dammit.
From what I have been reading here, you were always a real writer. You've made the shift over to professional writer, which means getting paid for what you already loved doing. (That's my idea of win/win!) But real? That happened the first day you got serious about it, and chose writing over TV, or any of the other perfectly normal and acceptable human activities.

What, me antisocial?


*nod* I'm reasonably certain this writing thing can't be healthy.... *g* If I were my mother, I'd be telling me to go outside and get some fresh air.

Re: What, me antisocial?

Oh wow didn't I hear that often!

"Put that trash away and go outside and get some fresh air!" (fresh air--in L.A.???)

"Why are you always scribbling on that garbage? Get an interest! Put on some make up and act like a normal girl!"

The weird thing is, my mom doesn't remember any of that now--doesn't remember throwing my writing out and me digging in the trash to get it. It's kind of funny now, but it sure wasn't then!

Re: What, me antisocial?

My mom has actually always been great about my writing, but she's a poet herself. I have had issues with other family members, but it always made me all the more stubborn.

I know a lot of writers who have dealt with similar things, and I always wonder why people who purport to care for somebody will undermine them so outrageously.

Re: What, me antisocial?

In my day, the issue was conformity. It was weird for me to be writing, and my parents (very young parents) wanted me to be talking about boys, and wearing make-up and ratting my hair. Normal girl things. They saw no difference between what I was doing and my creepy uncle who, when drunk, heard voices in the static on the radio telling him the FBI was after him, and he'd better go slash the neighbors' tires because they were really spies. So of course it made sense, at least at first, to punish and scorn me out of it.

Re: What, me antisocial?

...and I was raised by wild lesbians in the hills of Central Connecticut. If I attempted to conform, it was regarded with suspicion. *g*

but it does make a good story.

You know, that hair-ratting thing. I always wondered. How do you do that?

Re: What, me antisocial?

That sounds like a cool backgrounhd! (At least, not boring!)

Ratting hair. First you need a rattail comb, which all teen girls in 1963 carried around in their hands. You didn't carry a purse and God forbid books or notebooks, you carried your rattail comb. You grab a handful of hair, and backcomb it, that is, instead of stroking from scalp outward, you stroke very hard from hairends to the scalp, thereby creating an huge snarl. You do this all over your head and then pat it all into a poufy round at the top of your head, carefully form your flip with the ends, and then spray the hell out of it so even in a hurricane it doesn't move a jot. If anyone touches it, you squeal in your shriekiest voice, "My hair!" and scurry with all the other girls in sight to the nearest bathroom to rerat it, anchor it, and then reapply your white lipstick, and maybe touch up your eyeliner (which is in three layers, the black, the white, and the blue shadow over it, plus another line right about where your eyeball fits into the socket, with a tail extending out to your temple.)

Does ratting snarl? Boy howdy. Combing it out was tear-smarting torture, but of course all girls knew that you are to suffer for your beauty--just as you got up extra early in the morning because your eye make-up alone could take forty-five minutes to get it just right.

You also slept on giant curlers every night, in order to get that flip just right.

Re: What, me antisocial?


And all this without instructional videos.

I would never have survived the sixties. I can barely get my toenails cut before they poke holes in my socks.

I'm actually more butch than my husband, which amuses our friends to no end....
Learn from the best, I always say. *g*