Yesterday, well, I don't really know how many words I wrote. As I reworked sections of Chapter Three of Fay Grimmer, I would make a mark every time a wrote a NEW word (but not every time a word was erased, which hardly seems fair). I stopped just after 500, but I'd be surprised if I wrote even a thousand. On the other hand (said the bilaterally symmetrical organism), I was able to salvage 3,843 words. So, I'm just going to throw caution to the four and say I wrote 4,343 words yesterday. Even though it's a lie, as salvation is not creation. Regardless, all that matters is that I am almost halfway through. This book may have as few as six or seven chapters.
Oh, and Spooky and I sort of outlined the first few chapters a few days back, when the whole thing went to hell (again). I don't know what they teach the kids at Clarion and other writing sweatshops, but when I make outlines, when I plot before the fact, it looks like this (usually one card per chapter):
Yup. And that's mine and Spooky's handwriting.
Also, a marvelous final season premiere to the final season of Fringe. Spooky saw a critic somewhere refer (positively) to it as fourteen-hour feature film. If you're not watching the show, you need to know what you're missing. Well, unless you're one of those people who believes that Geoff Ryman actually is a better writer than were, say, Philip K. Dick or Frank Herbert.* If that's the case, Fringe might not be the show for you.
And now, fuck you Sunday.
I Can't Have It All,
* I don't give a shit if SF is fucking predictive. Whether or not it foolishly believes it can or should be predictive. I don't care if Fringe is patently absurd. I want good stories that make me go "wow," that amaze me, and fill me with wonder. And I'm not afraid of using a little lysergic acid diethylamide to get them. It's not science, kittens. It's science fiction. Why would I willingly waste my time reading anything that calls itself mundane?