Saturday, December 06, 2003
Yesterday I wrote and I wrote and I wrote and I have a grand total of 609 words to show for it. Which is to say, the "Untitled Novella" creeps forward. The primary problem here is that the story requires of me so much research, oftentimes in areas where I'm not particularly knowledgeable, that I'm forever having to stop to check a fact, or find a fact, and suddenly I've lost twenty minutes or half an hour and the information I've uncovered yields half a sentence. And really, in an ideal world (akin to the physicist's theoretical vacuum), it's not about words per day, or deadlines, or cost-effective writing habits. It's about doing the best I can do, always, regardless of the time required. But. This is not an ideal world, so I have to strike a compromise. Hemingway would loathe the way I'm writing this novella. I just made a note to apologize to his ghost, and to try to do better in the future (which is not to say it isn't a good novella; I think it is, actually).
And my editor didn't call yesterday. So maybe he'll call on Monday. Or Tuesday. Hey, it's only stress.
Next week, I have to get back to the Threshold screenplay or someone's going to hang me up by my toenails and leave me for the weasels.
The cold has relented just a drab, a smidgen, a tad. At least we're not being pelted like the northeast. Here's it just cold and grey. Or perhaps it's only grey and cold. I should ask.
Have you bought a copy of Low Red Moon? You know, that could be your one good deed for the day.
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