Thursday, August 08, 2002
You can only write about how writing doesn't lend itself to being written about so much, and then it gets old. So, I won't do that this morning. Though I do wonder about those people who write all those damn books for writers, the ones published by the likes of Writer's Digest (shudder). I should stop there before I piss someone off. Well, someone else.
The end of my summer is bottle-necking (Hyphen? I'm becoming very sensitive about hyphens.). I need to finish Low Red Moon in the next two weeks and do about a thousand other things, before my Rhode Islander returns on the 26th. Then there's Dragon*Con on the 30th. With some luck, I might make it.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,019 words on Chapter Twelve. I think I'll be able to finish it this afternoon, then proof it tomorrow, then begin Chapter Thirteen on Sunday. On Saturday, I escape Birmingham and visit Atlanta. It's strange, giving myself days off on a fairly regular basis. I was never able to do that while working for Vertigo. Not real days off.
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