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It's bright out there. Cold, but bright. And there's another storm on the way, as I'm sure at least half the country is aware. The snow should reach us by morning. I'm thinking of all those six-foot heaps made by the snowplows, and wondering how they'll look as seven- and eight-foot heaps. We have to get out of here this evening, before the weather starts deteriorating. I have a 7 p.m. (CaST) doctor's appointment, and we'll need to make it to the market.

---

Something happened yesterday that's never happened before. It's remarkable, I suppose, that it's never happened before, given I've been writing pretty much full-time now for nineteen years. I'm hesitant to even speak of it here. But given how this journal is meant to be an honest record of my experiences as a writer and author, I would feel dishonest leaving it out. Yesterday, first time ever, I found myself crying because of what I was writing. It came on very suddenly, and I had to stop and step away for awhile before finishing the scene. I know I was crying for Imp. There are other reasons, too, which I'm not going to spell out. But, later, I found myself thinking that this has to be the last novel of this sort I write, at least for the foreseeable future. It's too terrible and too personal. I find myself not wanting to let anyone see this one, ever. I felt that way a little with Daughter of Hounds, then even more so with The Red Tree. But it's never been this strong, the urge to lock the book away and not subject it to editors and reviewers and Amazon reader comments and people mouthing off on their blogs. It's just too personal, and I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. No one forces me to write these particular stories, to keep picking at these particular scabs. But, yeah. Last time. And then I'm going off to write YA, and tell wondrous stories, and they'll be dark, sure. They'll be true. But they sure as fuck won't be this. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but the truth is I'm making myself sicker, writing this novel, and it's not worth the toll it's taking.

It's okay if that didn't make much sense. Like Imp's story, it's mostly just for me.

At best, I'm halfway through the novel.

Yesterday, I wrote 2,106 words on Chapter 5, and finally reached the end of the longest chapter I've ever written.

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Not much else to say about yesterday. We watched the new episode of Fringe, which, of course, was very good. Then we watched the first two episodes of Season Two of Spartacus. Gods, I'd forgotten how much I love this show. Sheer and utter fucking debauchery and depravity, unabashed, unapologetic. All fucking id, top to bottom. It's nowhere near as well written as was Deadwood, but I think it has much the same appeal for me. Later, we played a little WoW. I think I got to bed about 3:45 a.m. (CaST).

Gonna go now. Comments would be especially welcome today.

Comments

miakodadreams
Jan. 31st, 2011 06:09 pm (UTC)
It sounds melodramatic, I know, but the truth is I'm making myself sicker, writing this novel, and it's not worth the toll it's taking.

Making yourself ill is indeed a high price to pay to tell a story, and I don't mean that dismissively. It sounds like these last few books have been a path of catharsis for you, though. If Daughter of Hounds and Red Tree have been building up to The Drowning Girl, maybe exposing these truths has become a necessary thing at this point — dragging the past into light and air so you can take one more step toward letting those scabs heal.

I hope that's the case. I hope this book accomplishes what it needs to do, and I know I'm not alone. We (your readers) are not all your personal friends (and that's a necessary thing, too). The ones who come here, though, who pre-order your books, and support you in other ways as they can, strangers and friends alike, they do worry about your health and happiness. Even on comment-quiet days.

And we will probably be the ones crying for Imp and for you when we read that scene, too.
greygirlbeast
Jan. 31st, 2011 07:33 pm (UTC)

It sounds like these last few books have been a path of catharsis for you, though. If Daughter of Hounds and Red Tree have been building up to The Drowning Girl, maybe exposing these truths has become a necessary thing at this point — dragging the past into light and air so you can take one more step toward letting those scabs heal.

OR...a somewhat less pleasant, but much more likely possibility...given the pressures my deadlines and finances have imposed...I'm falling back on a thing I know and can exploit repeatedly.

The ones who come here, though, who pre-order your books, and support you in other ways as they can, strangers and friends alike, they do worry about your health and happiness. Even on comment-quiet days.

And thank you.