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lagilmanReeeeeeeevisions. Revisions. Wheeee, revisions. *slog slog sliiiiiidewheee slog slog snarl*
I hate chapter-eight-as-was. No, that's not true. I love it like the spoiled little darling it is. I just need to drop-kick it through chapter nine-as-was.
I have had too much soda and too much toast-and-cheese, and even the break mid-day to bike 2 miles into town and back has not unfurled my brain from its fetal position around the core of this story. Which is a good, solid core, and has many good solid fun thinga built around it, and all shall be well as soon as I'm done with this, and it's really only been a few weeks, even if it seems like so much more.
I have this mad desire to write something that has no magic at all in it. Maybe something trendy and literary and full of metaphor and.... nah. Probably not.
In other news, my dad has joined the 21st century and gotten himself a cell phone. Mainly, I think, because my mother keeps forgetting to answer hers. And she has yet to figure out how to pick up messages. This, from a woman who was the first of her generation to get e-mail, and then IM. Which she still isn't quite sure how to use but does anyway, go her.
And in newly-breaking news, it is reported that S.M. Stirling has hit #34 on the extended NYT List. Okay, so I'm no longer his editor for the series, so I can't exactly claim bragging rights, but I'm gonna claim bragging rights anyway, damn it. Go, Steve!
I hate chapter-eight-as-was. No, that's not true. I love it like the spoiled little darling it is. I just need to drop-kick it through chapter nine-as-was.
I have had too much soda and too much toast-and-cheese, and even the break mid-day to bike 2 miles into town and back has not unfurled my brain from its fetal position around the core of this story. Which is a good, solid core, and has many good solid fun thinga built around it, and all shall be well as soon as I'm done with this, and it's really only been a few weeks, even if it seems like so much more.
I have this mad desire to write something that has no magic at all in it. Maybe something trendy and literary and full of metaphor and.... nah. Probably not.
In other news, my dad has joined the 21st century and gotten himself a cell phone. Mainly, I think, because my mother keeps forgetting to answer hers. And she has yet to figure out how to pick up messages. This, from a woman who was the first of her generation to get e-mail, and then IM. Which she still isn't quite sure how to use but does anyway, go her.
And in newly-breaking news, it is reported that S.M. Stirling has hit #34 on the extended NYT List. Okay, so I'm no longer his editor for the series, so I can't exactly claim bragging rights, but I'm gonna claim bragging rights anyway, damn it. Go, Steve!
