Yesterday was spent sitting in my office talking to Spooky about Joey Lafaye, trying to find a place where I can dig my nails in deep enough to hang on. Hours of talk about an unwritten book. I expect this would count towards insanity, were this a book that will not eventually become a written book. I smoked in my office, when I am only suppose to smoke outside, and so it stinks in here today. The conversation drifted to and fro and to again. Trying to find the title character, Joey, and trying to move away from the "fairy carnival" towards a "fairy shadow show" that will feel less like something I can be accused of having cadged from Ray Bradbury. The nature of twinship (should be a word, if it's not). And much talk regarding how badly I wanted this book to be not so dark a fantasy as my earlier novels, but how I suspect it'll be just as dark, regardless. I can only write what I have within me. A big stumbling block here, I fear, is that the book will be written in alternating chapters of a first-person diary and the third-person present tense. I can see the reviewers howling from here. Name me "inaccessible." It went on that way until about 4:30 p.m., when I could stand such talk no longer, and so, instead, I answered email. Today, we read through all that has been written thus far on the novel, and I'm not looking forward to that, either.
A reader wrote yesterday, via email, to say that "I'm writing because--from my admittedly limited perspective--terror and desperation don't really suit you." I am not naming the author, though sheheit may name herhimitself if sheheit so desires. I have to admit, I laughed out loud. The email was a response to what I said about standing at the precipice. And being terrified and all, as I approach this novel. Are there people whom "terror and desperation" do suit? And if so, why can't I be one of them? This is nothing new. Few things are as terrifying or so inspire desperation in me as beginning a new novel, and it only gets worse as the years go by.
I have an idea for an sf novella about a generation ship that's forced to become a sea-going vessel upon reaching a habitable extrasolar planet that has water oceans and atmosphere and earth-like gravity, etc., but no landmasses to speak off.
Oh, and I'm trying to find the soundtrack for this novel — for Joey Lafaye — as all my novels must have soundtracks, that music to which they are written. So far, this one has Tanya Donnelly, the Breeders, Brian Eno, the Beatles, Belly, and Smashing Pumpkins.
I received a rough sketch from Vince, his first go at "The Collector of Bones." I quite like what he's done, and look forward to seeing the final artwork.
Oh, and because I know this is a dreadfully dull entry, I will send a
Okay. I'm stalling. I know I'm stalling. It should be perfectly fucking obvious, right?
* Postscript (1:36 p.m.) — Contest closed. I think I should get a gold ribbon for being so tinked this afternoon as to forget that the icon is actually labeled "Ganymede." Oh, what a clever thing I am!