there's a low moon caught in your tangles
How is it that I can write 3,000 words in about five days, and then when I only have about 500 more words to go, it takes me weeks and weeks? I just have to get them from the aircar to the apartment. And then that little bit in the apartment. And that's it. It's the reason I was writing the fic in the first place, so why is it so bloody hard? The pilots have even exited stage left for a place more conducive to shagging, so I shouldn't be having characterization trouble. I love Jaina/Kyp, I ship them avidly, so why am I having problems here?
It's because it's not angst, isn't it? I'm writing something that doesn't end on a note of soul-crushing loneliness, and my muse is freaking out. He needs a drink, or something.* Calm his nerves.
In other news, I've read a third of Tar Baby, none at all of The Crying Lot of 49, and 75 pages of Revenge of the Sith. And in reading the last, I have proven that I am indeed twelve, because seeing the word "butt" in a Star Wars book just cracks me up. The fact that it was used in the context of Obi-Wan quite calmly examining Anakin's butt makes me...happyish. However, I cannot get credit in English class for dissecting the various implications of that scene. I have to have about 350 more pages of material read by 3:00 Tuesday. Oh joy.
Also, note to self--listen to NPR Decemberists concert recording. Because one cannot have too much Decemberists. Really.
*Yes, "he." I know the Muses were women, but mine is a guy. I think muses are like daemons in His Dark Materials--generally of the opposite sex to their "owner."