mythical me

In the process of agonizing terribly (and probably needlessly) over what I was going to read at WFC* I dug up a bunch of old novel bits-- nano drafts, that thing I'm not sure what it is yet b/c I was writing along thinking it was a short story until I bounced of 10k and the characters trying to wrap up the action without ever figuring out what was going on-- and now my brain, which is still entirely unprepared to write much of anything for life reasons is having this mad love affair with the way it thinks it used to work. And it never *did* work that way; I used to be able to write novels, but even at my best I'm not a fast or efficient writer. The productive workings of my mind are still descended from the fifth grader who would spend hours doodling on her desk lamp rather than just adding up that sheet of fractions so she'd be done and could go do something else. (I was far too lawful good to get up and do the something else I desperately wanted to do when I'd been told I couldn't until I finished my homework, which I'm sure also says something deeply significant about the inner workings of my brain, and is going to lead to parenting culture shock at some point.)

Anyway, there are three different things that need endings and I'd really like to see where they go and what they are, and then smooth out the awkward bits (why does Flinders always refer to everything as "stuff"?) so that other people can love Jameson and Willow and Mara as much as I do. And my back brain is rhapsodizing about how I used to have so much time and clarity to write rather than working on anything useful and word or plot related. And then going off and contemplating the side projects I could be doing (enchanted forest text-based game! a website for the mice, with some kind of comic/release-by-the-chapter hybrid!) if I weren't reading picture books and trying to keep the Megatherium from standing on the dining room chairs. (She's not quite tall enough to use the table effectively without standing up; we do appreciate this, but she's also extra wiggly & we don't want her to fall off. Um, any more than she does already; there was a moment last night where she was sitting perfectly well on the chair and then with absolutely no warning slipped off the edge.)

And my actual writing brain is still popping up the occasional fragment of probably-another-short-story-beginning and trying to convince me there should be more nursery rhymes with chickadees in. Which I agree with, but none have actually come to mind.



*The reading went pretty well, by the way; maybe as many as a dozen people including some I'd met at the con and two I'd never seen before, and several people said they liked bits, so now I feel vaguely bad that none of it is anything that's going to see the light of day anytime soon.

mythical me

In the process of agonizing terribly (and probably needlessly) over what I was going to read at WFC* I dug up a bunch of old novel bits-- nano drafts, that thing I'm not sure what it is yet b/c I was writing along thinking it was a short story until I bounced of 10k and the characters trying to wrap up the action without ever figuring out what was going on-- and now my brain, which is still entirely unprepared to write much of anything for life reasons is having this mad love affair with the way it thinks it used to work. And it never *did* work that way; I used to be able to write novels, but even at my best I'm not a fast or efficient writer. The productive workings of my mind are still descended from the fifth grader who would spend hours doodling on her desk lamp rather than just adding up that sheet of fractions so she'd be done and could go do something else. (I was far too lawful good to get up and do the something else I desperately wanted to do when I'd been told I couldn't until I finished my homework, which I'm sure also says something deeply significant about the inner workings of my brain, and is going to lead to parenting culture shock at some point.)

Anyway, there are three different things that need endings and I'd really like to see where they go and what they are, and then smooth out the awkward bits (why does Flinders always refer to everything as "stuff"?) so that other people can love Jameson and Willow and Mara as much as I do. And my back brain is rhapsodizing about how I used to have so much time and clarity to write rather than working on anything useful and word or plot related. And then going off and contemplating the side projects I could be doing (enchanted forest text-based game! a website for the mice, with some kind of comic/release-by-the-chapter hybrid!) if I weren't reading picture books and trying to keep the Megatherium from standing on the dining room chairs. (She's not quite tall enough to use the table effectively without standing up; we do appreciate this, but she's also extra wiggly & we don't want her to fall off. Um, any more than she does already; there was a moment last night where she was sitting perfectly well on the chair and then with absolutely no warning slipped off the edge.)

And my actual writing brain is still popping up the occasional fragment of probably-another-short-story-beginning and trying to convince me there should be more nursery rhymes with chickadees in. Which I agree with, but none have actually come to mind.



*The reading went pretty well, by the way; maybe as many as a dozen people including some I'd met at the con and two I'd never seen before, and several people said they liked bits, so now I feel vaguely bad that none of it is anything that's going to see the light of day anytime soon.

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