October 6th, 2006

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nothing about her

Nothing about her is human except that she is not a wolf; it is as if the fur she thought she wore had melted into her skin and become part of it, although it does not exist.

— Angela Cater (1978)
cleav2

Bitten by the Platypus, or the Wordsmith's Lament

Yesterday was sort of a disaster. And sitting down to write about it — I am a bit overwhelmed at the tedium. Here's the thing (and I know I've said this before): the life of a writer — a writer who spends her every single day writing or trying to write or attending to the busyness that comes along with writing — well, it's a goddamned tedious affair. Today I wrote X. Today I wrote X. Today I didn't write anything. Today I wrote X. And from the very start, if I was going to do an online journal, that's what I wanted it to be. An accurate accounting of my experience as a writer. It's mostly been that, though I will admit that I've swept dust piles under rugs and tarted up the whore from time to time and omitted the ugliest bits. But I think that I have managed to get across the breathtaking dullness of writing fiction for a living, a dullness punctuated with the sheer, bone-jarring terror which follows from the breathtaking uncertainty of writing fiction for a living.

Which is to say, yesterday was sort of a disaster, and any recounting of yesterday will be tedious, because yesterday was a tedious sort of a disaster, as most disasters in the life of a fiction writer (or anyone else, for that matter) are somewhat tedious. Most of it was spent writing an afterword for Tales from the Woeful Platypus. After 843 words, I called Spooky in and read it to her, and it was just as tedious as it had sounded when I read it to myself. I wanted there to be an afterword, but now I'm thinking maybe there won't be. I can't really afford to sacrifice another day trying to find one that isn't tedious. Today, I need to read through all nine of the vignettes and make any necessary corrections and rewrites (more tedium), and I'm already a week behind schedule. I need to get this book done and out the door. We shall see.

It's been twelve days now since the last "day off," and I think it's beginning to wear on me.

Since returning from Rhode Island, I've proof-read Daughter of Hounds, written "Untitled 23" and an introduction for Bradbury's The Day It Rained Forever, coauthored "At the Praying Windows," produced Sirenia Digest 10, and written the five new pieces for Tales from the Woeful Platypus. And a mountain of writing still looms before me. I am nothing if not prolific.

Last night is a blur of television, but I was too tired to get up off my rump and do much else. More Drakengard 2. A couple of eps of Industrial Wonders on the Discovery Times Channel (a very good series, by the way), one on the Transcontinental Railroad and another on the Panama Canal. Other things I cannot now recall. Likely, because they are not worth recalling.

And now I turn to face the day.