What I Talk About When I'm Not Writing
Well, what I talk about is sex, and food, and hot guys, and my kids, and science, and all sorts of things--those of you who know me in meatspace know this.
I'm waiting for the kids to be in bed, or at least out of my immeidate vicinity--my personal space bubble somtimes inflates to THE WHOLE DAMN HOUSE when I'm writing--at least with regards to conscious minds.
I've got two chapters left on Horses of Achilles. Every morning I'm dinking away at them. It feels wierd, as I'm on a different computer and my previous files aren't saved to it--but it's also freeing, as I can't get lost in My Own Gorgeous Prose™. I've been trying very hard to lose the Editor on the Shoulder and not worry about what's right, what's wrong, or even too much about continuity, but just plug on with what's next, and then what, and then what, and then what. And if I can get that done....
I get antsy when ther's so much dialogue. Why? Because dialogue is my shit. I love to write dialogue. I could write pages and pages of it, and sp when I find myself using a lot of dialogue, I get nervous, thinking I'm going to bore with my fun. So when a bigger challenge is called for, I relish it. Like description. Ughh. Description feels like I'm walking in pails of cement rather than shoes. So out of terror, I've made myself become fairly decent at it.
Pretty soon I'm going to have to do some kind of trial scene, or grand jury scene. I'm not looking forward to it. Why? Because of the need of a rewrite--to help solidify (as opposed to calcify) roles certain characters have, how they fit into the whole mess. What the whole mess *is* actually. The last two chapters are where all the threads are gathered together. I don't have to have everything in a neat bow, but I would like a semblance of tidiness, at least.
I have to remember, I can go back and fix this. It's not set in stone. I have to allow myself some freedom, and forgiveness.
I'm waiting for the kids to be in bed, or at least out of my immeidate vicinity--my personal space bubble somtimes inflates to THE WHOLE DAMN HOUSE when I'm writing--at least with regards to conscious minds.
I've got two chapters left on Horses of Achilles. Every morning I'm dinking away at them. It feels wierd, as I'm on a different computer and my previous files aren't saved to it--but it's also freeing, as I can't get lost in My Own Gorgeous Prose™. I've been trying very hard to lose the Editor on the Shoulder and not worry about what's right, what's wrong, or even too much about continuity, but just plug on with what's next, and then what, and then what, and then what. And if I can get that done....
I get antsy when ther's so much dialogue. Why? Because dialogue is my shit. I love to write dialogue. I could write pages and pages of it, and sp when I find myself using a lot of dialogue, I get nervous, thinking I'm going to bore with my fun. So when a bigger challenge is called for, I relish it. Like description. Ughh. Description feels like I'm walking in pails of cement rather than shoes. So out of terror, I've made myself become fairly decent at it.
Pretty soon I'm going to have to do some kind of trial scene, or grand jury scene. I'm not looking forward to it. Why? Because of the need of a rewrite--to help solidify (as opposed to calcify) roles certain characters have, how they fit into the whole mess. What the whole mess *is* actually. The last two chapters are where all the threads are gathered together. I don't have to have everything in a neat bow, but I would like a semblance of tidiness, at least.
I have to remember, I can go back and fix this. It's not set in stone. I have to allow myself some freedom, and forgiveness.