Neither Adventures Nor Underground
August 1
Where did the week go? And, speaking of that, where did the month go?
July was not a fabulous month, writing-wise. I don't think I made a single sale (not counting my regular reviews, of course, or the Red Church review, which I did for love, not money). Kind of a bummer, but perhaps some sales are percolating -- there are certainly plenty of stories and poems out there, being considered. Maybe someone will want one.
Dude. I hope you voted for the Hugos. 'cause if not, it's too late.
I haven't written much this week. Nothing on Monday or Tuesday, and nothing so far tonight. I did write Wednesday night -- borrowed a few bucks from Heather (because I'm that broke, and she's that nice) and went to the café, where I wrote a short story called "Post, Ergo, Propter". It's about 2,500 words long, and is a sort of Sleeping Beauty story (though I go way back to the 1636 Basile version -- which has an already-married prince and doesn't involve a kiss at all -- as my leaping-off point). I'm pleased with it, though I need to revise it a bit... it's too boringly linear as it is, and there's more tension to be had by shuffling the chronology. It needs to be more beautifully written on a line-by-line level, too; the prose, as it stands, is only just serviceable. The story made a nice break from Rangergirl, and gave me that "I-accomplished-something" thrill.
Er. Headache tonight. Don't know why.
I've been reading, not just Years of Rice and Salt (which goes slowly, because I don't like dragging the big hardcover around, and only read it at home) but also The Darkest Part of the Woods by Ramsey Campbell, which I will likely review, and the Mirror, Mirror on the Wall essay anthology, which is occasionally wonderful. We watched Oceans Eleven last night, which was just lovely, exactly the sort of fast-moving film I was in the mood for. Tonight we watched that crazy Czech version of Alice in Wonderland, and it was awesome, though marred by the lamentable absence of a Cheshire cat. I feel sleepy and groggy and weird; too much time spent on the couch, methinks.
I did do some writerly stuff this week, sending out stories and revising and such, just not as much actual-writing as I would've liked. But then (as Heather points out), the amount of work I expect from myself is, perhaps, sometimes, too high.
But writing is my work. My vocation. That which gives my life meaning. I want to give it lots of effort, time, and attention. As Ellison (Harlan, not Ralph) once wrote: "I am a writer. I write. That's what I do. I do a lot of it."
So I suppose I should go do some of it, now.
Words written since February 1, 2002: 128,450
Words written since last entry: 2,500
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