addicted to kittens
Well, we went to a 10:30 showing of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (and that's 11:30, Caitlín Standard Time, of course), so me and Spooky didin't get home until frelling three a.m., and she let me sleep until eleven, and now the day's half gone. Argh. But I adored the film. The showdown between Harry and Voldemort was wonderful. I loved the merfolk, naturally.
I told Spooky I was only going to make a short journal entry, seeing as how the day's slipping away and there's work to be done.
I think the apparently inevitable post-novel completion funk is finally setting in. I hate it. This time, I was hoping maybe it wouldn't find me. That sense of suddenly having no direction. That sense that I must begin something else huge immediately in order to regain a sense of direction (and to keep to keep the bills paid). The absence of any genuine sense of satisfaction. All that dren. Blargh. Sometimes - times like this - I think, how would things have gone if I'd only written Silk and those first few short stories and a couple of arcs for The Dreaming? If, in February 1997, instead of choosing writing, I'd chosen music and stayed with Death's Little Sister? I figure, the band would have imploded after another few months, a year at the most. It was a very unstable entity, DLS. I'd have gone on to another band. And then another. By now, I'd be on band number four or five. I'd have a rep in Athens and Atlanta for being a total bitch and no one would ever want to work with me. By now, I'd have been in rehab twice for heroin. Never mind the booze. I'd have a tiny, but extremely loyal, fanbase. I'd live in a skanky little apartment somewhere in downtown Athens, above one of the frat bars. There'd have been the inevitable romantic thing with Michael Stipe that would have lasted for, oh, five minutes. There'd have been one brief mention in Rolling Stone, because of that fist fight with Courtney Love. I wouldn't be happy, but I'd be so drunk most of the time, it wouldn't make much difference. Instead, though, I'm a writer. Five or six or seven novels in (depending how you count) now, and this is the way it all turned out.
Yay me. Six of one, half dozen of the other.
Er...we read Chapter Five of Threshold yesterday ("The Dead and the Moonstruck," a title I'd borrow once more from HPL for my short story in Gothic! Ten Original Dark Tales). It's a chapter that reminds me how much I still love this novel, even if the syntax seems a little alien to me now. It's the point where all the characters are brought together, and Chance does that little up and down thingy with her finger. Anyway...
Turns out, Saturday is really a much better day for subscribing to Sirenia Digest than is Friday. Saturday is, in fact, the very best day for subscribing. Especially given that Issue 0 will likely be mailed out tomorrow afternoon. Instant gratification and all that good stuff, right? Just click here. You'll thank me, and you'll tell all your friends and neighbours and relations and coworkers and imaginary friends that they need a subscription, too.
Yep.
I told Spooky I was only going to make a short journal entry, seeing as how the day's slipping away and there's work to be done.
I think the apparently inevitable post-novel completion funk is finally setting in. I hate it. This time, I was hoping maybe it wouldn't find me. That sense of suddenly having no direction. That sense that I must begin something else huge immediately in order to regain a sense of direction (and to keep to keep the bills paid). The absence of any genuine sense of satisfaction. All that dren. Blargh. Sometimes - times like this - I think, how would things have gone if I'd only written Silk and those first few short stories and a couple of arcs for The Dreaming? If, in February 1997, instead of choosing writing, I'd chosen music and stayed with Death's Little Sister? I figure, the band would have imploded after another few months, a year at the most. It was a very unstable entity, DLS. I'd have gone on to another band. And then another. By now, I'd be on band number four or five. I'd have a rep in Athens and Atlanta for being a total bitch and no one would ever want to work with me. By now, I'd have been in rehab twice for heroin. Never mind the booze. I'd have a tiny, but extremely loyal, fanbase. I'd live in a skanky little apartment somewhere in downtown Athens, above one of the frat bars. There'd have been the inevitable romantic thing with Michael Stipe that would have lasted for, oh, five minutes. There'd have been one brief mention in Rolling Stone, because of that fist fight with Courtney Love. I wouldn't be happy, but I'd be so drunk most of the time, it wouldn't make much difference. Instead, though, I'm a writer. Five or six or seven novels in (depending how you count) now, and this is the way it all turned out.
Yay me. Six of one, half dozen of the other.
Er...we read Chapter Five of Threshold yesterday ("The Dead and the Moonstruck," a title I'd borrow once more from HPL for my short story in Gothic! Ten Original Dark Tales). It's a chapter that reminds me how much I still love this novel, even if the syntax seems a little alien to me now. It's the point where all the characters are brought together, and Chance does that little up and down thingy with her finger. Anyway...
Turns out, Saturday is really a much better day for subscribing to Sirenia Digest than is Friday. Saturday is, in fact, the very best day for subscribing. Especially given that Issue 0 will likely be mailed out tomorrow afternoon. Instant gratification and all that good stuff, right? Just click here. You'll thank me, and you'll tell all your friends and neighbours and relations and coworkers and imaginary friends that they need a subscription, too.
Yep.