Yesterday, I went back to Chapter Two of Fay Grimmer, the stone about my neck, and continued my effort to make something less wretched of it. I can't say how many words I wrote, because there's no way to know. I can say that the work spanned a section of thirty pages, encompassing an ever shifting landscape of ~4,100 words. Entire paragraphs were deleted. New ones inserted. The inflection of lines of dialogue were altered. Comedy was toned down. An entire world was converted, piecemeal, into another world. Unspeakably clunky syntax was, hopefully, made only speakably clunky.
I'm having to tell myself, if I can just survive today, I'll be out of Chapter Two, and then – other than a few truly terrible continuity flaws scattered throughout the manuscript – I'll only have 15,000 words left to write, and I will be finished. Unless I've died, and this is what I get for being such an asshole, an eternity spent rewriting this book.
NEVER agree to write a trilogy again.
Fuck, I just remembered that I have an appearance at the Brown University Bookstore this Wednesday night. No idea what I'll be reading or saying or whatever. I'd totally forgotten until Spooky reminded me a few days ago, then I totally forgot again. Fuck. But...if you want to be there, um...there must be something online somewhere. Yes, here. I'll be there, apparently. I do question the absence of any other female authors.*
Six authors. One woman.
Of Human Bondage,
*Note: Change of plans. I only just discovered that the event is scheduled for 5 p.m. (my 4 p.m.), and I've had to cancel. Apologies to any who meant to attend. There's just too much work, and 4 p.m. is too early in my work day.