I didn't know what was going to happen when Deacon and Scarborough went to the "spider girl house" on Red Mountain (originally, I'd though Starling Jane was going with Deacon). That business at the truck stop in Pennsylvania? I never saw it coming. And I had no idea what would happen once Narcissa got Chance back to Massachusetts. And so on and on and on and on. This means that most of what I put into the proposal for Penguin, before I actually wrote Low Red Moon, was a lie, and I knew it was a lie. It was, at best, if we want to pretty up our language, a placeholder, to make someone happy until the events in question could actually occur. And the synopsis I'm struggling with now will be no more than a very rough approximation of whatever is about to occur in Daughter of Hounds. Because I am incapable of prognostication.
And, to everyone's surprise, it's really very difficult for me to just sit here and make stuff up. That's not writing. I don't know what that is.
Nonethelesss, I have to make an end of it today, one way or another.
There's more important work languishing.
I'm very pleased with how the Species of One LJ community is coming along, and, beginning yesterday, this blog is being mirrored at the Low Red Annex, for those more comfortable with LJ.
It seems as though I had other things to say, but whatever they might have been, I can't remember. Oh, yeah, last night Spooky and I worked on a pattern for a pulse pistol holster, which I'm making for Nar'eth. And then she (Spooky, not Nar'eth) kicked my eema at War of the Monsters. See? Important stuff.