Dear Jane.
Dear Jane;
Shut up.
No, seriously, shut up. It's swell and dandy that you're feeling talkative right now, and I really, really appreciate all the great details that you're giving me about Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues. And wow, is that some painful stuff Corey's going to have to deal with in Star Light, Star Bright (and don't think I'm not still cranky with you for showing up with a sequel, because honey, I am). And golly, I really like knowing that you've thought all this stuff through. But y'know what? I don't want to write the better part of a chapter in longhand on the BART train, and people look at me funny when I start arguing with myself on street corners. Not even pretending that I'm on my cellphone can stop them from realizing that I'm having both sides of the discussion by myself. It looks weird.
What is with you lately? Not that I'm complaining about the actual productivity, except, well, have you considered yoga? Or maybe pilates, or sedatives, or something that's going to let you focus, and thus let me focus, so that I can actually finish the things you're handing to me. Look at poor Corey, Jane. Look at her, languishing two chapters from the end of her book, all haggard and woebegone. More importantly, look at Clady, who's beginning to consider knocking off the competition in order to get me to actually start writing her book. I can't write a series of light-hearted young adult romantic comedies about a dead girl, Jane. Or, rather, I probably could -- I'm me, I know better -- but not this dead girl. Corey would make a lousy zombie. Think about the characters, Jane!
Creatively, you're going like gangbusters, which is why both Mars and I are reasonably sure that you've met somebody. And that's swell, Jane, it really is, but I need you to stop dumping your spare endorphins all over the place where I'm trying to work. I keep finding body glitter stuck to my continuity guides, and you're leaving your clothes all over the place. I'm glad you're having fun, really I am. Now please. Put your shirt back on, stop trying to make me look at your new tattoo, and let me finish something for a change.
Yrs.,
Seanan
Shut up.
No, seriously, shut up. It's swell and dandy that you're feeling talkative right now, and I really, really appreciate all the great details that you're giving me about Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues. And wow, is that some painful stuff Corey's going to have to deal with in Star Light, Star Bright (and don't think I'm not still cranky with you for showing up with a sequel, because honey, I am). And golly, I really like knowing that you've thought all this stuff through. But y'know what? I don't want to write the better part of a chapter in longhand on the BART train, and people look at me funny when I start arguing with myself on street corners. Not even pretending that I'm on my cellphone can stop them from realizing that I'm having both sides of the discussion by myself. It looks weird.
What is with you lately? Not that I'm complaining about the actual productivity, except, well, have you considered yoga? Or maybe pilates, or sedatives, or something that's going to let you focus, and thus let me focus, so that I can actually finish the things you're handing to me. Look at poor Corey, Jane. Look at her, languishing two chapters from the end of her book, all haggard and woebegone. More importantly, look at Clady, who's beginning to consider knocking off the competition in order to get me to actually start writing her book. I can't write a series of light-hearted young adult romantic comedies about a dead girl, Jane. Or, rather, I probably could -- I'm me, I know better -- but not this dead girl. Corey would make a lousy zombie. Think about the characters, Jane!
Creatively, you're going like gangbusters, which is why both Mars and I are reasonably sure that you've met somebody. And that's swell, Jane, it really is, but I need you to stop dumping your spare endorphins all over the place where I'm trying to work. I keep finding body glitter stuck to my continuity guides, and you're leaving your clothes all over the place. I'm glad you're having fun, really I am. Now please. Put your shirt back on, stop trying to make me look at your new tattoo, and let me finish something for a change.
Yrs.,
Seanan