Yesterday was a total fucking loss. A straw broke the camel's back, as they say. Boom. Broken camel. One word. Fucking literally. One fucking word. So, yeah. No writing yesterday. Email doesn't count. But I have been slogging through Fay Grimmer. On Thursday, I rewrote the last section of Chapter One, 1,633 words (banking 633). On Friday, I wrote 1,089 words (banking 89). Yesterday, 0.
Want writing advice from me? I wouldn't think so, but people do ask. Okay, well, here you go: It's moronic to write in drafts. Or – what I've done here – to write a thing so poorly the first time that it has to be repeatedly rewritten so as not to fall upon the ear like a bucketful of rusty forks in a washing machine. Do it right the first goddamn time or don't do it.
I have determined that I shouldn't read anything remotely resembling good fiction, or even watch decent movies, until I'm done with this book. And certainly no excellent novels and no excellent films. Given the work I'm doing, they have an effect I have labeled "thermonuclear discouragement." So...I won't be reading Cloud Atlas until December. Maybe, in December, when this turd is out the door, I can read a couple of good book and watch a whole slew of good movies!
Best not to even mention The Return of Dreamsickness, because, inevitably, someone will confuse cause and effect.