Friday, August 22, 2003
Yesterday in her livejournal, Poppy wrote, "It's a terrible thing when we must bribe ourselves to write." I stared at that a moment, as if the meaning wouldn't quite sink in, and then I turned to Spooky and said, "How the hell else does one make oneself write?" And maybe that will serve to illustrate how different writers come to this enterprise from entirely different places. Personally, I still class writers who enjoy writing with unicorns, dragons, and gay Republicans.
I finished Chapter Seven of Murder of Angels yesterday. It took another 1,537 words to do it, but now it's done and today I will proceed to Chapter Eight. And, as it turns out, Chapter Seven is probably the longest single chapter I've ever written, weighing in at 12,717 words. This book has a marked penchant for expansion. It would be one of those silly 1,000+ page horse-chokers were I to allow such a travesty. Instead, I'm thinking it'll top out at around 100K words. Anyway, because I'd hardly left the house for two weeks straight (two weeks since last I bothered with make-up!), we met friends and had a very large dinner at Huey's last night to celebrate.
Sometime in the night, the web fairies (I do believe in web fairies; they're far less fantastic than gay Republicans) returned to me control of the domain caitlin-r-kiernan.com. It only took fourteen frelling days, two frelling weeks, and Jennifer is now in the process of turning it into a mirror site. And the lost and wilderness-wandering have begun trickling into the new phorum. So I suppose life is returning to "normal."
Now I must go brush my teeth and check on the cat and get to work. Don't forget the auction. Every time you buy a book, a Nebari gets its wings, er, I mean . . . oh, never mind. Go buy something. Oh, and by the way, the last three size L Salammbô shirts are in this auction. You want a large, it's now or truly never, ever, ever.
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