Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Another day, another day, another frelling day. I awoke hungover and punchy (it's a great thing, waking punchy), and lay in bed making plans for a Brundel Barbie, using the oven as a transport pod and including a stowaway My Little Pony. "Oh my god! How did that pink pony get into the transporter!" Some fool would call that art.
Finally, the LRM page proofs are on their way back to NYC. They left yesterday. Good riddance. Jennifer's finishing up with the proofs for the Subterranean Press edition.
And then there's Murder of Angels.
I think it's killing me. Don't think I'm joking. I went through this sort of pregnancy with Threshold. Except this is actually worse, which I never, ever thought I'd say. I never thought I'd have to say, "This book is more difficult to write than was Threshold." I thought even I had better sense than to get myself into that sort of situation again. Or at least start keeping cyanide capsules in my desk drawer. At more than fifty-five thousand words, I ought to have some sense of where this book is bound (ha ha ha ha), but I don't. "Hey, Rocky! Watch me pull a rabbit outta my ass!" It all eludes me. It yawns before me like a hungry black abyss that eats writers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And I have less than six months to finish the fucker. I considered, yesterday, typing THE END at the end of Chapter Five, breaking all the chapters up so that there would be fourteen short chapters, and sending it back in to my publisher. I thought, it might work, maybe. And I'd be doing my part to fight FEP and saving a few trees in the bargain. Oh, I wrote about 300 words on Chapter Six yesterday, but it was all garbage.
And how was your day?
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