Friday, May 16, 2003
We didn't get home last night until 1:30, and didn't get to sleep until about 4 am. And my head wants to ache. But we had amazing thunderstorms last night, truly amazing. Unfortunately, a small bit of ceiling in the hallway began to leak during the storms, which is odd, because we're on the ground floor and there's another loft above us.
I wrote 1,034 yesterday, and I'm glad to say they came to me easier, as What Happens Next became a little less opaque. The day before, I wrote 1,040 words. Chapter Three is beginning to get some substance to it. But, as the novel unfolds in my head, I begin to wonder if all those people who wanted to know what happened after page 353 of Silk are going to wish they'd never asked. Someday, I'll write a happy book. Someday, the sun will be a cinder at the heart of a dead ring of burned-out planets. In some ways, I think Murder of Angels is going to challenge me in ways that a book never has. It's taking me back places I don't especially want to go, and forcing me to ask myself questions that I don't necessarily want answered. Artistically, if not psychologically, that can only be a good thing. One thing this book will most emphatically not be is more of Silk, even though it resumes the story begun in that novel. I says "resumes," rather than "continues," because there's a ten-plus-year space between the two books. It's the only way I could have done this. I never could have cast my mind back to 1994 (probably the year that Silk is set, though I could make a convincing argument for 1992, as well), and pick up where I "left off." This isn't that sort of sequel. It is, however, as much a resolution for Silk's characters as there is ever likely to be.
In some minor ways, it's also a sequel to Low Red Moon, which is very odd.
Now, I go write.
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