Friday, July 30, 2004
I'm not nearly awake enough to write this, or much of anything else, but the phorum's quiet this morning, and there weren't many comments to reply to in the LJ, and no new e-mail, so here I am, regardless. I went to bed early, about 12:45 am, but lay awake until at least 2:30, then awoke from a nightmare about eight and was unable to get back to sleep. I gave up and crawled out of bed about nine thirty. Ugh.
It has been a strangely significant week.
And I suppose I'll talk about the greater part of that significance, as, from the beginning, this was meant to be an honest journal of my work as a writer.
Since 1998, I've published six novels (six novels in six years), two short-story collections (and enough material for a third), four or five chapbooks, whatever In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers qualifies as (a short story in hardback form?), a couple of novellas, a small mountain of comics, and numerous odds and ends. In the last year alone, I wrote the lion's share of Murder of Angels, then went straight to The Dry Salvages, then did six short stories, from "Mercury" to "The Pearl Diver," pretty much one after the next. And I am exhausted. And I've been told that it's time for me to slow down, because I've worn myself to the last bit of flesh before you hit bone. It is not in my nature to slow down, but I've come to a place where I have little choice.
I called my agent on Wednesday and asked her to renegotiate the delivery date in the contract for Daughter of Hounds. Originally, I was to have delivered the first half of the book in December, and the completed ms. in March, a mere seven months from now. I asked her to get me a lot more time, which she did, and now the book isn't due until January '06. That gives me the time I need to write it at a pace that won't do me more damage than I've already done myself. I am not the sort of author who can deliver a book a year ("churn out" is the phrase that comes to mind), and after doing it twice, I can no longer pretend that I am.
I'll also be cutting back substantially on the number of short stories and novellas I'll be doing over the next year and a half.
And then we'll see how it goes.
I have reached a place where tired is no longer an adequate word.
Enough said.
Spooky and I spent a couple of hours yesterday catching up on all the unfiled things that needed filing, and discovered there was an office hidden beneath all the crap. I also discovered an uncashed $17 royalty check for the Gauntlet edition of Silk dated January 8th. I'm not sure if it's still good. I guess I'll find out. It's nice the have the clutter out of the way.
And I sat and stared at Murder of Angels, but you already know about that. It really is a nice looking book, and I can only hope that helps move it off the shelves come September 7th. And I've recently been told that books with the words "angel" and "murder" in them sell well, so maybe that'll work in my favour, as well.
Last night, Spooky and I watched two episodes of Farscape, "Coup by Clam" (which was much funnier than I remembered) and "Unrealized Reality" (one of my favorite eps).
Tonight, we're going to see The Village, of course.
I haven't even heard the new P. J. Harvey album yet.
Oh, I should plug the "Mercury" chapbook. It's featured on the news page at Subterranean Press. This is the first Deacon Silvey short story I've done since "The Long Hall of the Top Floor," way back in '98 or '99 (my memory is unspecific this morning). You can order the chapbook now. Or, if you've preordered the subpress edition of Low Red Moon direct from subpress, you'll get it free with that order. Also, check out our eBay auctions. You only have about 36 hours left on the free monster doodle offer (when you use "buy it now").
11:47 AM
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