Darkness does not preclude happiness. There must have been a few joyful Morlocks.
Yesterday, I wrote 385 words on "Whilst the Night Rejoices Profound and Still." A sort of Samhain on Mars story. More of a Bradbury feel than my science fiction stories that have a William Gibson feel, but not a pastiche. And not a riff on "The Exiles." Do any of my science fiction stories have a voice I haven't borrowed? Anyway, if I can write it, this will be for a Halloween-themed Sirenia Digest #83.
Today, I'll either return to it, or I'll return to the brief memoir on me and paleontology, which people seem to want to read (thank you all who voted in the poll). I warn you, though, that it is, in the main, not a "happy" story. It doesn't end at all well. It is, in fact, almost too depressing to put down on...well, let's say paper, even if paper is a lie. If it were a heartening tale, I wouldn't be writing this. I actually spoke to my shrink about it on Tuesday, and she asked me to weigh the costs of writing it against the costs of not writing it. The emotional expense. As if, you know, I hadn't already fucking done that. I have no answer. I can't until afterwards. Catharsis or a new layer of depression? I do not, I should say, believe in closure.
Regardless, I've wasted almost two weeks, here and there, fucking about in my head, when I should have been fucking about on "paper." Maybe readers aren't knocking down my doors, but the deadlines sure as hell are. To wit, this is my schedule between now and November 30th. December is my first-ever month long quasi-vacation, and if I don't get it, my head will literally explode and none of this shit will matter:
~ Sirenia Digest #83
~ Write "Whilst the Night Rejoices Profound and Still"* (see above)
~ Finish Fay Grimmer (three chapters, plus the salvation of Chapter Two), ~20,000 wds.
~ Write a 20,000-word chapbook
~ Sirenia Digest #84
~ Proofing art and text for Dark Horse Presents Dancy stories.
Want to be a working author, id est, an average professional author, part of the 97% of us? Well, there's your lot. No parties. No celebration. No whirlwind of witty friends and torrents of intellectual stimulation. Only this grind of words unto death. Few days off (though frequent unproductive days). Now, I'd like my motivation back, please. The usual fear of even greater poverty is passion enough to suffice.
Limping Through Hoops,
* Anyone else ever steals a title from me before I use it, I'll punch them in the ear.