Dress-Bet Thing. (I totally don't remember hearing about a bet)
Oh man. My intertia is battling with my powerful lust for new books. I'm so conflicted! I WANT the new Bujold novel. I REALLY REALLY WANT IT. My local bookstore has a copy reserved for me a measly ten minutes' walk away. But it's so awful out, all rainy and dark and RAINY and I'm in my soft flannel pajama bottoms. MAN. SO CONFLICTED.
Other things: My Straylight Run tickets arrived! Commence rejoicing! I'm so ridiculously excited. My friend N is going with me. Hmmmm. Must remember to make her a CD so she'll know what the hell to expect.
This weekend, I have mandated! Shall be a writing weekend! Lots to do, lots to do, don't you know. I wandered down a link from Neil Gaiman's blog a couple weeks ago where a woman was talking about Rules for Professional Illustrators. One of the things she talked about was the fallacy of inspiration. She said:
I think that there is a misconception that artists have to wait until there is a 'muse' who will inspire them towards creativity and industry. Nah. You work until 'it' comes, and THEN you ride the wave.
Not a new or innovative idea, really, but it hit home with me this time, coming off a wave of inspiration that had me writing 3000 words in three days, which is a pretty damn good rate for me. I have a bus ride, and I started taking advantage of it, more consistently than I ever have, writing instead of listening to music or reading. Internally interesting results. I generally got something down on paper by the end of the 1/2 hour ride, and at the beginning of the week, most of those attempts led to actual scenes that made it into the story. Toward the end of the week, not so much. I got more tired, more frustrated with work. Also, I've hit a point in the story where everything feels very Important To The Plot. I kind of hate that point, because that's when I start really worrying about what I write, whether it makes sense, whether it gives the impression I'm going for, whether it feels right. Prior to that point, I'm just kind of surfing along, going wherever my brain takes me, without really a clue. After that point, I worry I'm going to Fuck It Up. It's all mental shenanigans, because after a certain point of freaking out and writing bits of scenes that don't go anywhere but test out the feel I'm going for, I just buckle down and write it. Oh, writer-brain.
Pete and Patrick had never stayed mad at each other for long. They were too similar, tending toward quick flare-ups and equally rapid reconciliations. This time, though, Patrick's temper settled into deep freeze and Pete stopped talking except onstage. He kept strictly away from Patrick, and the stage could be divided into territories based on where Pete wouldn't go. Trust Pete, Patrick thought, to turn this into a fight between two eleven-year-old girls with tape down the middle of their room.
Hi, what the fuck, my little sib has called me THREE TIMES in the last 24 hours. I hate phones. We should all go back to talking by telegraph.
Other things: My Straylight Run tickets arrived! Commence rejoicing! I'm so ridiculously excited. My friend N is going with me. Hmmmm. Must remember to make her a CD so she'll know what the hell to expect.
This weekend, I have mandated! Shall be a writing weekend! Lots to do, lots to do, don't you know. I wandered down a link from Neil Gaiman's blog a couple weeks ago where a woman was talking about Rules for Professional Illustrators. One of the things she talked about was the fallacy of inspiration. She said:
I think that there is a misconception that artists have to wait until there is a 'muse' who will inspire them towards creativity and industry. Nah. You work until 'it' comes, and THEN you ride the wave.
Not a new or innovative idea, really, but it hit home with me this time, coming off a wave of inspiration that had me writing 3000 words in three days, which is a pretty damn good rate for me. I have a bus ride, and I started taking advantage of it, more consistently than I ever have, writing instead of listening to music or reading. Internally interesting results. I generally got something down on paper by the end of the 1/2 hour ride, and at the beginning of the week, most of those attempts led to actual scenes that made it into the story. Toward the end of the week, not so much. I got more tired, more frustrated with work. Also, I've hit a point in the story where everything feels very Important To The Plot. I kind of hate that point, because that's when I start really worrying about what I write, whether it makes sense, whether it gives the impression I'm going for, whether it feels right. Prior to that point, I'm just kind of surfing along, going wherever my brain takes me, without really a clue. After that point, I worry I'm going to Fuck It Up. It's all mental shenanigans, because after a certain point of freaking out and writing bits of scenes that don't go anywhere but test out the feel I'm going for, I just buckle down and write it. Oh, writer-brain.
Pete and Patrick had never stayed mad at each other for long. They were too similar, tending toward quick flare-ups and equally rapid reconciliations. This time, though, Patrick's temper settled into deep freeze and Pete stopped talking except onstage. He kept strictly away from Patrick, and the stage could be divided into territories based on where Pete wouldn't go. Trust Pete, Patrick thought, to turn this into a fight between two eleven-year-old girls with tape down the middle of their room.
Hi, what the fuck, my little sib has called me THREE TIMES in the last 24 hours. I hate phones. We should all go back to talking by telegraph.