Howard Hughes vs. Her Last Scrap of Humanity
Remember when people "had time" to read online journals? Before the instant gratifications and endless blither buffet of Twitter and Facebook, I mean. Wow. Technology. LJ automatically capitalizes "facebook," unless I force it not to, at which point I'm told it's misspelled. Talk about kissing the ass of your undoing.
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You may now preorder the Alabaster: Wolves hc from Amazon. And remember, if we get very good preorder numbers on the hc, Alabaster's future at Dark Horse will become much more secure. Please preorder.
And...speaking of Alabaster...some idiot posted a link to her "review" via Twitter. I am informed that, "While I respect not 'saying' everything that is going on plot-wise, I find writing that is deliberately obtuse* annoying." Me, I'm guessing she's never read books that don't have pictures.
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The first day after regrouping, Wednesday, the Mordorian Death March went well. I did 1,838 words on Fay Grimmer, expanding a scene at the end of Chapter Two, so I could finally tell Chapter Two to get the fuck out of my face (didn't work). But yesterday was a maze of four-and-five-party phone conferences (long one with Dark Horse), which, while productive, ate up about two hours, total, and put my mind many, many places that were not this novel. Yesterday's unsightly tasks included: 1) adding yet another page to Chapter Two, in the vain hope of coaxing some sense from a scene; 2) rewriting the final scene of Chapter One, and 3) struggling to save as much of Chapter Three as possible. Turns out, the entire opening scene for Chapter Three has to be rewritten, but I might be able to save the rest with only minor alterations. Now, constant reader, you know that I don't write this way. Ever. This is anathema to the way that I do write. Anyway, yesterday I managed a mere 805 words, 895 less than I needed to hit the day's goal. Worse still, as I reworked the text, I deleted almost twice as many words as I added. I'm actually moving backwards with this blasted thing!
There are readers who get very frustrated, even angry, when a writer publicly expresses displeasure with something she/he is/has writing/written. It all seems to come down to a belief that if a writer isn't enjoying (cough, cough) the job, then it will be impossible for readers to enjoy the story or book or whatever. "How can I appreciate this if you hated doing it?" I wonder how many people who feel this way know how many authors are/have been unhappy with various aspects of their writing. For example, how unhappy Arthur Conan Doyle became writing Holmes. When Doyle sent his detective tumbling over Reichenbach Falls in "The Final Problem" (1891), surely they don't think that was an artistic decision on Doyle's part. After all, the author wrote to his mother (of "killing" off Holmes), "I must save my mind for better things, even if it means I must bury my pocketbook with him." Do they not know that Arthur Conan Doyle only resurrected Holmes (1894) when those "better things" didn't pan out?
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Yesterday, I received comp copies of a new German hardcover edition of Threshold - retitled Fossil for the Deutsch translation. The German paperback was released way back in 2009. I had no idea this new edition was even planned. I'm wondering if my agent did. Still, it's kind of cool.
Last night, I finished reading Donald R. Prothero's After the Dinosaurs: The Age of Mammals. And...okay. Enough for now. Comments are always nice (and a special thanks to D. K. and M. J. for their kind words regarding "Our Lady of Tharsis Montes"). I need that. Now, fuck the typos and full speed ahead.
Obtuse,
Aunt Beast
* Congratulations to akaten, who was the first to catch the "reviewer" having mistaken obtuse for abstruse.
---
You may now preorder the Alabaster: Wolves hc from Amazon. And remember, if we get very good preorder numbers on the hc, Alabaster's future at Dark Horse will become much more secure. Please preorder.
And...speaking of Alabaster...some idiot posted a link to her "review" via Twitter. I am informed that, "While I respect not 'saying' everything that is going on plot-wise, I find writing that is deliberately obtuse* annoying." Me, I'm guessing she's never read books that don't have pictures.
---
The first day after regrouping, Wednesday, the Mordorian Death March went well. I did 1,838 words on Fay Grimmer, expanding a scene at the end of Chapter Two, so I could finally tell Chapter Two to get the fuck out of my face (didn't work). But yesterday was a maze of four-and-five-party phone conferences (long one with Dark Horse), which, while productive, ate up about two hours, total, and put my mind many, many places that were not this novel. Yesterday's unsightly tasks included: 1) adding yet another page to Chapter Two, in the vain hope of coaxing some sense from a scene; 2) rewriting the final scene of Chapter One, and 3) struggling to save as much of Chapter Three as possible. Turns out, the entire opening scene for Chapter Three has to be rewritten, but I might be able to save the rest with only minor alterations. Now, constant reader, you know that I don't write this way. Ever. This is anathema to the way that I do write. Anyway, yesterday I managed a mere 805 words, 895 less than I needed to hit the day's goal. Worse still, as I reworked the text, I deleted almost twice as many words as I added. I'm actually moving backwards with this blasted thing!
There are readers who get very frustrated, even angry, when a writer publicly expresses displeasure with something she/he is/has writing/written. It all seems to come down to a belief that if a writer isn't enjoying (cough, cough) the job, then it will be impossible for readers to enjoy the story or book or whatever. "How can I appreciate this if you hated doing it?" I wonder how many people who feel this way know how many authors are/have been unhappy with various aspects of their writing. For example, how unhappy Arthur Conan Doyle became writing Holmes. When Doyle sent his detective tumbling over Reichenbach Falls in "The Final Problem" (1891), surely they don't think that was an artistic decision on Doyle's part. After all, the author wrote to his mother (of "killing" off Holmes), "I must save my mind for better things, even if it means I must bury my pocketbook with him." Do they not know that Arthur Conan Doyle only resurrected Holmes (1894) when those "better things" didn't pan out?
---
Yesterday, I received comp copies of a new German hardcover edition of Threshold - retitled Fossil for the Deutsch translation. The German paperback was released way back in 2009. I had no idea this new edition was even planned. I'm wondering if my agent did. Still, it's kind of cool.
Last night, I finished reading Donald R. Prothero's After the Dinosaurs: The Age of Mammals. And...okay. Enough for now. Comments are always nice (and a special thanks to D. K. and M. J. for their kind words regarding "Our Lady of Tharsis Montes"). I need that. Now, fuck the typos and full speed ahead.
Obtuse,
Aunt Beast
* Congratulations to akaten, who was the first to catch the "reviewer" having mistaken obtuse for abstruse.