greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

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Consume in Five-Day Increments for Better Health!

Of course, I should have noted yesterday, when posting the lyrics to the Burl Ives' song, that in the Great State of Georgia, and elsewhere across the US o' A, marriage between two insects is illegal. Might not seem fair, I know, but we must protect our Christian Family Values, and everyone knows bugs are godless pagan idolators.

Except for grasshoppers, who lean, almost without exception, towards Unitarianism.

Yesterday, I allowed myself to be the willing tralk of one of the greatest of the Nine — Distraction. I was distracted for hours, when I should have been working on Chapter Three. Distraction is so alluring, so dangerous, because it understands that many writers, especially those of us pressed into literature in an effort to earn our keep, are constantly seeking Distraction. Almost anything will do. I can spend two hours just counting and recounting paper clips. An hour can pass quickly and entirely wordlessly when doodling in my engagement calendar. The frivilous ways of Distraction are a terrible wonder to behold, boys and girls and gender-free human things! Of course, all was not lost. Late in the day, I gathered my resolve and wrote the first 700 or so words on the first of the ten vignettes. No peeking.

As for Daughter of Hounds, though, I managed no more than proofing the first three thousand words (roughly) of Chapter Three. So far, so good, though there seems to be a book within a book — Sadie Jasper's role within the whole — and worse yet, a book within a book within a book — the history of odd goings-on in Massachusetts that Sadie is writing. This is the sort of thing I must strive to keep under control, or I'll have a 900-page doorstop on my hands, something I won't finish until Xmas 2008 or so. Frell that. You'll find another of the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing (of which there are nine) in there, in the writing of doorstops.

Spooky and I are reading Kathe Koja's Skin, as it's the book I've been asked to write about for Steve Jones' Horror: Another 100 Best Books. We've reached page 73. It seems unbelievable that this book has been allowed to go out of print. That is, of course, the fate of almost all novels, but it galls me, nonetheless.

The guiche is healing very nicely, thank you.

Okay. My mind is turning to darker things, so I should end this here. Keep it light, Kiernan. Let the sun shine in. Smile, you whore of words.
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