November 6th, 2013

house of leaves

"I’m ashamed that I’m barely human. And I’m ashamed that I don’t have a heart you can break."

While I was sick, I forgot to open the curtain in my office, and the leaves on the tree outside my window went from green the shriveled and brown in a few days. I don't know what sort of tree it is. The leaves don't turn. Anyway, now I'll be looking at the leafless, barren, stark trunk until fuck knows when next year. April or May 2014. Five years in, these winters are getting harder and harder on me.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,068 on "Pickman's Madonna" and found THE END. It will appear in Sirenia Digest #93 (October '13), which I hope will go out in the next few days. I intend to both get it and #94 out in November. Keep watching the skies. Also, I should note here that I owe a good bit of the concept and some specifics in "Pickman's Madonna" to story material worked out with stsisyphus, and I am grateful to him for generously agreeing to permit me to use it outside the original context.

Today, I desperately need to jump back into Cherry Bomb, both feet, full-tilt boogie, and all that shit. I've gotten dangerously behind, and it's hard to even imagine being able to catch up. If I could only write more in a day. If I could manage to raise my daily average to, say, 2,000 words without sacrificing quality. But I don't write in drafts. I can't. Don't know how. I sit down and produce polished, finished prose. Anyway, having to undertake rewrites would, ultimately, eat up just as much time or longer, even if I could dash off drafts.

On a related note, sovay recently wrote:

I don't believe in NaNoWriMo. I don't mean metaphysically; I mean that I know that writing a novel in thirty days is not a reasonable goal to set for myself, especially when I don't even have a novel in mind. I do, however, believe in National Fucking Write More Month, which does not make a very good acronym. Something with intellectual content every day, not just reportage or link aggregation. It shouldn't be impossible.



Fuck it all.

Looking at the Sad Tree,
Aunt Beast