soreNow, to understand how important that is, my all time favourite book is Peter Beagle's The Last Unicorn. A sweet, simple, layered, beautifully written little story that I am not allowed to read in public because it makes me bawl. That's a good fifty percent of my definition of a good book: if it makes me bawl. (Please note, there are books that make me cry that are not good books. I'm a sucker for sad animal stories. WAAAAAAAAH!) Kay's Fionavar books, too. I can reread those a thousand times, and cry, and cry, and cry.
Very therapeutic.
The other fifty percent of my definition is that it makes me think. And there's fifty percent for gorgeous drop-dead writing in there too. And maybe fifty for a scintillating plot. But you know. I failed math.
The reason I'm grinning like an idiot is this: I have five novels done. One in a pretty good second draft, three in third draft, and this one in about draft five and getting closer, I think, to the point where if I fiddle with it much more it won't be quite the same book. I think it still has some freshman mistakes in it... but at least the language is tighter now, and I think the plot arc is too. And I still like the story. So I'm a pretty happy girl.
Tomorrow I send Jenn Hammered, and I start my research for The Stratford man.. Tonight, I sleep.
