Thursday, August 15, 2002
It went fairly well yesterday, as long as you disregard the fact that I've lost any vague sense of objectivity towards this story. I'm half (but only half) convinced that it's somehow moving along without me at this point. Like an air bubble deep underwater, moving towards the surface. It doesn't need anyone to tell it which way to go. It goes up, until there's no up left to go. Simple. This story started feeling like that yesterday. Just wanting me to get out of the way so it can go up, to the top, to the ending. I wrote 1,251 words on Chapter Thirteen yesterday. I suspect this last chapter is determined to be long. Meanwhile other work is piling up, because the novel wants all my time. Manuscripts I should have sent to editors weeks ago, an unfinished interview, a synopsis of Low Red Moon I have to write for my agent because she needs it for the Frankfurt Book Fair, proofreading on "Waycross" for Subterranean Press, updates on the website (well, technically that's Jennifer's department), liner notes for a CD — the list goes on and on. Things the novel insists can wait another few days until it's finished. It's a very insistent novel.
I fell asleep last night to Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, so I had only good dreams . . .
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