Saturday, February 23, 2002
I'm sitting here listening to my cat barf somewhere in the hallway. It's amazing how loudly cats barf. You'd think they would hurt themselves. It's an ominous sound, like an alien parasite disgoring itself from a host's throat. And this place has a lot of hallway, and it's mostly dark, so stepping in said disgorged alien is always a danger.
I think my cat barfs more than any other cat in the world. I think it's her hobby.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate writing synopses for books I haven't yet written? Well, I do. I mean, I know half the stuff in the outline won't make it into the book, because it'll change as I write it and characters do things I never intended them to do. And my agent knows it. And my editor knows it. But thems the rules. Write a synopsis. It's a bit like trying to see the future. My outlines are rarely more accurate than a three-week weather forecast.
And everything sounds stupid boiled down to a synopsis.
Then again, trying to see what a story will be like from reading a synopsis is almost paleontological. Trying to see a living, breathing organism from, at best, a skeleton and some fortuitously fossilized soft parts. Trying to infer behavior from osteology. Speculations on lines of descent when most populations vanish without leaving any fossils behind. Yep. That's a lot like trying to see a novel from one of my synopses.
Having been a very good girl and met my somewhat unrealistic goal for the month of February (getting Chapters 2 and 3 written and off to NYC), I believe I may reward myself with another road trip to the sea. The van's up and running again. turns out it wasn't the radiator, but some hose or another, which was a relief.
By the way, questions should be sent to me c/o Desvernine@aol.com. I'll try to answer the interesting ones. The cat's barfing again . . .
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