it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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N is for Neville

ETA: Well, that cheered me up. I just wandered over to Amazon to pick up the link for Scardown because I was updating the info page over at the other blog, and I was pleased and gratified to notice that Hammered now has an Amazon sales rank of 639,010. Last time I looked, it was a million and change.

Thank you all *very* much. That cheered me up enormously!

(and of course, there are other options: Barnes & Noble and Powell's have Hammered, and Chapters has both Hammered and Scardown. Pimp pimp pimpity pimp)


Well, that's it. I cracked, and posted the last four chapters and the epilogue to All the Windwracked Stars over at elizabethbear. I figured it wasn't fair to dispense the hopefully nail-biting cimax in drips, so it's all up there. If you've been waiting to read it, now's the time.

Today's first post (Kenaz) is HERE

The first post in the novel, the prologue, is HERE.

I do still like the ending.

Now I'm going to have to figure out what else to do with that space, I guess, but perhaps not this week.


The better part of a week will have elapsed before he has recovered enough to do anything more helpful.

--Edward Gorey, The Unstrung Harp


That's more or less the state I'm in now, I think--an extended bout of post-novel ennui--and I just haven't really recognized the particular form it's taking this time because this year has been so much taken up with revisions--Stratford Man, Scardown, Worldwired, Blood & Iron, All the Windwracked Stars, and The Sea thy Mistress--that, even though I've only actually written one novel this year--Worldwired--and part of another--One-Eyed Jack--and not done very much in the way of short fiction at all, I've done a tremendous amount of work that I'm not, subconsciously, giving myself credit for.

Also, there's the little matter of finishing Worldwired, which is finishing a story arc I've been working on since 1994, in one way or another. It's a big whonking lump of closure, and I need to give my brain time to find its footing again.

So really, I should neither be surprised nor overwhelmed with guilt at my brain's current general unwillingness to be involved in this writing thing, of late, even if the Protestant Work Ethic is gnawing away at my backbrain, and the Guilt Gorilla is stomping around back there, and the Thought Baboons are hopping over each other's butts and pointing and laughing and suggesting that if I get out of the habit of writing every day, I'll never get back in.

Screw it. I'm sending the Suck Monkey in with beers. That oughta keep the apes quiet for a while.

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