greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

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"This is why, why we fight, why we lie awake."

Spooky's off at some thingamajig at RISD, and I'm here alone with the cats. Outside, there's sun, but the day does not look warm.

Insomnia again last night. Too many ideas going round in my brain. Too many problems trying to be solved. No way to flip the switch. I watched The Beast from Twenty Thousand Fathoms (1953) twice. I lay in the dark staring at nothing. I lay with my eyes shut, still staring. I finally got to sleep sometime after five ayem, and I slept until eleven, when the alarm clock went off. That seems a lot longer ago than one hour.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,026 words on Cherry Bomb and finished the first "chapter" (TAPE ONE).

This might actually have a chance at being a decent novel, and the greatest thing working against it is that I'm already about two and a half months late on its delivery. I'm aiming to have it finished by the end of November, which means I have 58,616 words to write over the next fifty-two days. That's not too bad, if I could right every single one of those days. Then I'd only need write 1,127 words a day, well within my average (slightly below). But I won't. I'll lose at least six or seven days. Let's be optimistic and say I lose only seven. Which means I need to write something closer to 1,302 words a day. Which isn't impossible. But there are always the unforeseen glitches, the places where to story hits a wall, etc.

Of course, all of those, these mathematics of composition, are deadly to good writing. It's one thing to set a daily word limit for yourself. Self discipline is a necessary trait in a novelist and a freelance. But deciding that a story can be this long and no longer, then breaking it all down and racing the clock...that's something far less admirable than self discipline. But sooner, rather than later, my publisher expects an actual manuscript for the money they've already paid me, and sooner, rather than later, I'll be in dire need of the money I'll be owed when the book is finished. This familiar problem, which has been with me since I began doing this full-time back in the mid nineties, is compounded by the fact that "Siobhan Quinn novels" are a series, and everyone expects series to appear in timely increments. Sure, George R. R. Martin might not be your bitch, but Caitlín R. Kiernan just might be.

Well, no. Actually she isn't. But there are days it sure as fuck feels that way. It's not an accident, the very slim parallel between Quinn and Quixotic. Still, let's call this another Mordorian Death March. Its been a while.

Next Wednesday night, I will be reading at KGB Bar in Manhattan, along with the wonderful and brilliant Michael Cisco (you know he must be, because I'm saying this, and I hate almost everyone). So, be there if you can. I have no idea what I'll be reading. Hell, I cannot even recall if I've already announced this event in the LJ. This will be the first time I've made it down for a KGB reading since 2008, when I read dirty stories from Frog Toes and Tentacles and Tales from the Woeful Platypus.

Last night, RP in The Secret World, the more Twin Peaks, then More RP, then...well, that where we came in, isn't it?

With Our Arms Unbound,
Aunt Beast
Tags: art vs. craft, cherry bomb, ft&t, grrm, insomnia, michael cisco, mordorian death march, november, nyc, october, ray bradbury, ray harryhausen, tftwp, writing

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