A headache showed up yesterday and has yet to leave. Outside, the day is a dreary and vile.
Yesterday, I did 1,107 words on that story not titled "Pilgrims and Thunder Lizards."
1) It just occurred to me, Black Helicopters – which I consider my best work since The Drowning Girl: A Memoir – breaks almost all the "rules" I have, in recent years, set for my self an as author. It has neither unity of time nor place, unfolding over three centuries, with scenes set in Dublin, London, Switzerland, coastal Maine, Manhattan, an asylum in upstate New York State, a space station orbiting Mars, and a village/barge floating somewhere off the coast of Massachusetts. It has an "ensemble cast," with several important characters. It has...okay, I'll stop there. Point is, I break my "rules" and I still love it. Back to what I have always said. There are no hard and fast "rules" for writers. At best, there are suggestions. You do what works. Fuck the rules.
2) For years, whenever a cherished project of mine fails commercially (as most do) I take solace in far greater works of art that also fell on deaf and idiotic ears and eyes and minds. Recently, The Wachowski's Cloud Atlas is my solace.
Clearly Not Writing,