Monday, September 29, 2003
My fantasies of a marathon writing session were short-lived. Blame it on Chapter Eleven. Of course, it was a lousy idea to start with. It would have amounted to rushing the ending, even if it required just as many hours as it would have taken otherwise, there would still have been a sense of rushing. There are many writers who claim to do their best work under pressure or in short periods of time. Stephen King claims to have written The Running Man in a single weekend. And I think it shows.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,273 words on Chapter Eleven, before dinner, then after dinner came back and wrote another 462 words, for a total of 1,735 words. The after-dinner bit almost amounts to marathonism, by my standards, as I never write after dinner. I used to do most of my writing in the evenings, but we're talking long, long ago, as in college. The Five of Cups pretty much established my diurnal writing habits, though I still occassionally wrote at night through the composition of Silk (so, through 1996). But with The Dreaming, as writing became something I had to do everyday, regardless of mood or weather or natural disasters, I began to set for myself a routine. Now I write during the mornings and afternoons.
Yesterday, I wrote to R.E.M., which I don't often do. When I do, it's usually either to Life Rich Pageant or Fables of the Reconstruction. But yesterday I chose first Out of Time and then Automatic for the People. The latter proved oddly perfect for the scenes I was writing.
So, it has come to my attention that there are those out there among you who are prone to believe fairy tales. Now, I don't mean the kinds Los Bros Grimm and Mr. Andersen wrote. Of course those are true. I mean the unwritten, culturally propogated sort. You know, things like "published authors make a lot of money and don't need any of mine." It's perhaps understandable, these myths — that publishers pay us in a timely fashion, as per contractual obligation, that fame equals wealth, that having a Hollywood agent and a New York agent means you're set for life, that writers can, in fact, survive solely on air and tap water, so long as they're allowed to write. But it ain't so, little grasshopper. Sadly, it just ain't so. Would that it were. But guess what! You, yes you, can shake off the fetters of ignorance and do something to remedy the plight of at least one overworked, underpaid writer. Simply click here or here (see how I've thoughtfully given you choices), to visit either eBay or the Species of One Shop, and - ahem - PLEASE FRELLING BUY SOMETHING! Now, if you're one of those people who owns everything I've ever written, or you've spent outrageous sums on an ARC of some or another of my books, or you've already ordered Nar'eth's Box of Mayhem, you may stop reading here. You're a dear and I'm not talking to you. But I cannot count the times people have e-mailed to say how much they love the blog, how they read it every day, but regret to say (actually, they're rarely that polite) that they've never read one of my novels, or anything else I've written, for that matter. Or the people who whine about not being able to find my books. Easily remedied. All you have to do is visit one, or both, of the links conveniently provided above. Thank you.
I think I shall now have the butler (the tall one, not the short one) ring up the stables and have them prepare for my post-luncheon ride. Oh, and perhaps I'll drive the red Jaguar today (one should never drive the same colour Jag two days running).
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