Frosty Sunday Morning

There's frost on the grass, and the roofs. It's January 7th in northern Illinois, the temp is hovering around freezing but is on its way to the mid-40s. After that OMG blizzard on December 1, we haven't seen any significant snow. Everything melted weeks ago, save for a few wall-like piles in parking lots, leaving bare lawns the faded green of dormant grass.

I wonder if the summer is going to be as hot as they predict?

Yesterday I checked the copyedits and wrote up the bio for How I Got Published--Famous Authors Tell You How in Their Own Words. (I'm riding coattails, trust me--the draft ToC I saw was pretty nice) and sent that off. I've also been plugging away on Endgame revisions. Wanted to get into the double-digit chapters by the end of the day, but that's not to be. Too much reworking of the political situation--who tells what to whom, who knows what when, and how it all plays into the ending. Funny how thinking up the right sentence can take as long as writing a page.

The backbrain earned its money, kicking out sentences that linked up with earlier scenes. I'd write it down, then stare at it and think yes. Honestly, if I had to consciously think of all this stuff, I'd never have finished a book.

Back to work tomorrow. Endgame is due in 5 1/2 weeks, which is about 17 minutes in real time. I will be taking the odd vacation day here and there, but as is my habit, things will be tight. I should follow pbray's example and vanish for a while, but if I did, I'd feel deprived and irritated (no such thing as internet addiction, uh huh). I will be cutting back on posting, though, because I'm as distractable as a kitten with ADD, and I really need to hunker down.

Frosty Sunday Morning

There's frost on the grass, and the roofs. It's January 7th in northern Illinois, the temp is hovering around freezing but is on its way to the mid-40s. After that OMG blizzard on December 1, we haven't seen any significant snow. Everything melted weeks ago, save for a few wall-like piles in parking lots, leaving bare lawns the faded green of dormant grass.

I wonder if the summer is going to be as hot as they predict?

Yesterday I checked the copyedits and wrote up the bio for How I Got Published--Famous Authors Tell You How in Their Own Words. (I'm riding coattails, trust me--the draft ToC I saw was pretty nice) and sent that off. I've also been plugging away on Endgame revisions. Wanted to get into the double-digit chapters by the end of the day, but that's not to be. Too much reworking of the political situation--who tells what to whom, who knows what when, and how it all plays into the ending. Funny how thinking up the right sentence can take as long as writing a page.

The backbrain earned its money, kicking out sentences that linked up with earlier scenes. I'd write it down, then stare at it and think yes. Honestly, if I had to consciously think of all this stuff, I'd never have finished a book.

Back to work tomorrow. Endgame is due in 5 1/2 weeks, which is about 17 minutes in real time. I will be taking the odd vacation day here and there, but as is my habit, things will be tight. I should follow pbray's example and vanish for a while, but if I did, I'd feel deprived and irritated (no such thing as internet addiction, uh huh). I will be cutting back on posting, though, because I'm as distractable as a kitten with ADD, and I really need to hunker down.

Sunday evening

I can't read Rupert Everett's autobio while I'm working on Endgame. He has A Style and I'm an awful mimic and it's kind of like the time I watched All About Eve, then afterwards wrote about three pages of dialogue, all of which I wound up pitching. Because I pick up the beat and the language and Rupe on the Loose in Paris is not the flavor for which we are looking. Not now. Maybe later.

Still revising. In a way, I hope these next few weeks last forever, but in another way, the end can't come soon enough. I like this book, but I want it done. It's dragged on like the raising of the Titanic, and it's time to move on. To what, I have no clue. But on, in any case.

Sunday evening

I can't read Rupert Everett's autobio while I'm working on Endgame. He has A Style and I'm an awful mimic and it's kind of like the time I watched All About Eve, then afterwards wrote about three pages of dialogue, all of which I wound up pitching. Because I pick up the beat and the language and Rupe on the Loose in Paris is not the flavor for which we are looking. Not now. Maybe later.

Still revising. In a way, I hope these next few weeks last forever, but in another way, the end can't come soon enough. I like this book, but I want it done. It's dragged on like the raising of the Titanic, and it's time to move on. To what, I have no clue. But on, in any case.

That characterization thing, again.

A nice entry in Jane Espenson's blog about the difference between "understandable" and "likeable", and why understandability may be enough.

A welcome reminder for those of us who tend to stray from the likeable end of the character spectrum.

That characterization thing, again.

A nice entry in Jane Espenson's blog about the difference between "understandable" and "likeable", and why understandability may be enough.

A welcome reminder for those of us who tend to stray from the likeable end of the character spectrum.