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lydamorehouseLast night at Wyrdsmiths, the reception of my newest re-vision of the prequel was met with a resounding, "Uhm." My favorite part was when Eleanor declined to critique it until she'd heard whether or not everyone else was going to completely trash it. After Bill made happy noises that I was at least making progress, Eleanor decided "well, if Bill likes it, it's probably okay."
Wow.
So this morning I am starting again.
I have no fraking idea why I am struggling so much to write this book. I decided, however, that I'm still missing essential Mouse-ness somehow, and have decided to riff on an off-handed suggestion last night to write a short story about this article (forwarded to me originally by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
naomikritzer) that had inspired one of Page's footnotes (which were too long, too many, and not funny enough. *sigh*).
The book now starts like this:
"You know you're living in a true sh*t-hole when the army won't even send real soldiers. Drones they call 'em. Mohammad and I call 'em "parts."
Here comes another one now. It rolls smoothly on the wavy, shifting sand dunes that fill the narrow roadway between the crumbling buildings and half-buried stalls. Its motor chatters as it pings and ticks and whirs to itself, like the mutterings of an old, lost soul in this ghostly marketplace."
That has more something... more *je ne sais pas.* I think it will eventually lead me back some places I'd been before, but I need to see them all again with fresh, science fictional eyes.
I've been depressed all morning, though I did sit and compose a bit of the new stuff out in the backyard (horray for laptop batteries and outlets in the garage). The sun on my skin felt great and I was visited by a mangy, calico cat who sat and watched me suspiciously for several moments before rubbing her scent glands against the picnic table just to let me know it was hers. Later a squrriel buried a few nuts or seeds or just randomly dug holes like they're wont to do, and a juvenile robin sat on Mason's jungle gym before fluttering off to greener pastures, no doubt.
I really kind of want to give in to my cravings for a Coke or some chocolate, but I went to the gym this morning and realize that it would take more than thirty minutes on the eliptical to sweat off that one can of Coke. Bleah. Perhaps tonight I will drink too much Mike's Hard Lemonade and watch more of "The Closer." Although Shawn's friend Liz is coming over for homemade pizza -- the dough is rising even now, which should be fun, and distracting from my writing woes.
Well, nose to the grindstone. I may write a bit of Tate's YA, since that practically writes itself at breakneck speeds.
*double sigh*
Wow.
So this morning I am starting again.
I have no fraking idea why I am struggling so much to write this book. I decided, however, that I'm still missing essential Mouse-ness somehow, and have decided to riff on an off-handed suggestion last night to write a short story about this article (forwarded to me originally by
naomikritzer) that had inspired one of Page's footnotes (which were too long, too many, and not funny enough. *sigh*). The book now starts like this:
"You know you're living in a true sh*t-hole when the army won't even send real soldiers. Drones they call 'em. Mohammad and I call 'em "parts."
Here comes another one now. It rolls smoothly on the wavy, shifting sand dunes that fill the narrow roadway between the crumbling buildings and half-buried stalls. Its motor chatters as it pings and ticks and whirs to itself, like the mutterings of an old, lost soul in this ghostly marketplace."
That has more something... more *je ne sais pas.* I think it will eventually lead me back some places I'd been before, but I need to see them all again with fresh, science fictional eyes.
I've been depressed all morning, though I did sit and compose a bit of the new stuff out in the backyard (horray for laptop batteries and outlets in the garage). The sun on my skin felt great and I was visited by a mangy, calico cat who sat and watched me suspiciously for several moments before rubbing her scent glands against the picnic table just to let me know it was hers. Later a squrriel buried a few nuts or seeds or just randomly dug holes like they're wont to do, and a juvenile robin sat on Mason's jungle gym before fluttering off to greener pastures, no doubt.
I really kind of want to give in to my cravings for a Coke or some chocolate, but I went to the gym this morning and realize that it would take more than thirty minutes on the eliptical to sweat off that one can of Coke. Bleah. Perhaps tonight I will drink too much Mike's Hard Lemonade and watch more of "The Closer." Although Shawn's friend Liz is coming over for homemade pizza -- the dough is rising even now, which should be fun, and distracting from my writing woes.
Well, nose to the grindstone. I may write a bit of Tate's YA, since that practically writes itself at breakneck speeds.
*double sigh*