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Feb. 12th, 2005
So.
Woke up at 3am. Chatted online for a bit with a fellow insomniac. Crashed for about an hour of actual doze-time. Woke up, read over my beta's comments on a short story, started the thinking process up again on how to fix what we both agreed was the problem area. Fed cats. Showered. Was about to make coffee when pleasantly interrupted by a knock on the virtual door.
Finally got to coffee, and thinking. Writing. Deleting. Chasing my tail on this one, in that I know what's to be done, but can't quite find the words for it. I'm very particular about the words. Words are what leads me to all else, the sound and the fullness and the placement and the texture of all the words, individually and together and apart.
linen doves
crumped in my hand
released, fly
I love this story, for all that it's making me crazy finding the right words. It's growing, getting darker and larger and more true to itself. And letting me see further into this world than I had been able to see before, unfolding like origami paper so that I can see how it's all done, then folding itself back up again.
even if we
don't know what we hear,
trees make noise.
And I keep thinking "I need a rare-cooked slab of steak. And some halvah. Where are my serving boys, to bring me sustanance?" The cats, although loving, know not where to find halvah. And if that's not the opening line to something, I don't know what is. Next story, maybe.
After this one. And the revisions letter for Morgain's I/n/d/i/g/e/s/t/i/o/n/ Revenge that I'm still waiting waiting waiting on.
Woke up at 3am. Chatted online for a bit with a fellow insomniac. Crashed for about an hour of actual doze-time. Woke up, read over my beta's comments on a short story, started the thinking process up again on how to fix what we both agreed was the problem area. Fed cats. Showered. Was about to make coffee when pleasantly interrupted by a knock on the virtual door.
Finally got to coffee, and thinking. Writing. Deleting. Chasing my tail on this one, in that I know what's to be done, but can't quite find the words for it. I'm very particular about the words. Words are what leads me to all else, the sound and the fullness and the placement and the texture of all the words, individually and together and apart.
linen doves
crumped in my hand
released, fly
I love this story, for all that it's making me crazy finding the right words. It's growing, getting darker and larger and more true to itself. And letting me see further into this world than I had been able to see before, unfolding like origami paper so that I can see how it's all done, then folding itself back up again.
even if we
don't know what we hear,
trees make noise.
And I keep thinking "I need a rare-cooked slab of steak. And some halvah. Where are my serving boys, to bring me sustanance?" The cats, although loving, know not where to find halvah. And if that's not the opening line to something, I don't know what is. Next story, maybe.
After this one. And the revisions letter for Morgain's I/n/d/i/g/e/s/t/i/o/n/ Revenge that I'm still waiting waiting waiting on.
