Wednesday, May 21, 2003
I've written nothing on Chapter Four of Murder of Angels since May 17th. I have better reasons than usual. None of the Deady Sins. I can't admit the reasons here, because there are political considerations. There are always political considerations. Sometimes, more often than you might think, they get in the way of the art. That said, I do think that I'm getting closer and closer to the heart of the novel, in my head, even if I'm not actually putting down the words. I'm beginning to understand it clearly. It cycles through my head. Each cycle seems to bring it closer to articulation.
Last night, I read Harlan Ellison's "'Repent, Harlequin! Said the Ticktockman" and "The Prowler in the City at the Edge of the World" aloud to Kathryn. Ellison, whose writing has been a profound influence on my own, is one of those authors who helps me find the center again when I drift off course. And I am drifting, make no mistake. The rambling entries of the last two days should be proof enough of that.
Thanks to the people who wrote me after yesterday's entry. Your thoughts are very much appreciated.
But I do this thing, this writing thing, in a vacuum. The outer shell of my office; the inner shell of my head; the innermost shell of my mind. After the last eleven-plus years, I'm pretty sure that's the way it has to be. Which, I think, means I have to find direction myself, whenever I drift. Spyder says something like that to Niki in Chapter Three of Murder of Angels: "You're going to have to find the truth of this for yourself. There are no maps here, because no one but you knows the geography. It's different for everyone-" Sometimes I can only speak to myself through my characters. Or maybe it's that I only listen to myself when I'm speaking through my characters.
I have a couple of short story deadlines on July 30th. But I don't really have time to set the novel aside again to devote myself solely to short fiction. Like I said, the novel has to be God until it's written. Even so, this God is not so important that it can't be eclipsed by the aforementioned politics. The day-to-day bullshit of being an author, as opposed to the bullshit of just being a writer.
The copies of Le Terre del Sogno: Souvenir e Lacrime are now up on the Cat Crutches Auction. We haven't put the galley copy of Low Red Moon up yet, because there hasn't been time. But it will go up at some point in the next few days. Details to come.
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