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

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We are aging soldiers in an ancient war

Apparently I have lost whatever ability I ever had to inject atmosphere into a work of fiction. Also, the narrator of this novel wants to express everything in terms of cliches, which means I get to write a sentence, swear at it, and then go back and take out all the cliches. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I wonder what my stubborn backbrain is working on so hard that it's entirely abandoned everything I thought I had managed to internalize about mood, setting, and sentence-level craft? (This is pretty typical, by the way: I dunno about other writers, but for me, when my brain starts chewing away at some new problem of craft, I often realize that I have come to suck oh, so very much at things I was doing without thinking about five minutes ago. And what is up with that? I can drive a stickshift; I can walk and chew gum. Surely I can exposit and build atmosphere simultaneously?)

On the upside, the prose is pretty clean, and I think I'm actually managing to handle these huge, wonking lumps of exposition without choking on them. Now if only this thing would stop behaving like a fantasy of manners and develop some goddamned whallop....

Right. It's too late to knock this off as a bad job and become a pharmacist, isn't it?
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