Saturday, July 31, 2004
It's Saturday, which means I have to go have all the little downy hairs on my face, throat, the back of my neck, and shoulders waxed off in preparation for being airbrushed in early September. It has to be done far enough ahead of time that they will have begun growing back in by the time I have the make-up done. Otherwise, you get these strange looking lines between the very smooth skin and the downy skin. Am I making any sense at all? Whatever. I'm sleepy, and this is all I could think of to write about. The first couple of times I did Nar'eth, I didn't bother with that hair, which is normally almost entirely invisible. But the airbrush coats every hair, no matter how small, repeatedly. The result is that a clear hair that you'd normally need a magnifying glass to see can end up looking like something sprouting from a tarantula's rump (if tarantula's were grey, and, come to think of it, maybe some of them are). So. Today is waxing day. I'll look like a boiled lobster for several hours afterwards, but this is the price of perfectionism.
Yesterday, in response to my last entry, Poppy wrote: While I don't feel that I'm churning them out, I also know better than to take for granted that I'll be able to maintain this pace (though of course I'll be pleased as punch if I can).
See. Here's where I went wrong. Silk took me about 27 months to write. Threshold took me 22 months. But then I managed to write Low Red Moon in only about 8 months (it was a weird, fevery experience, writing that book). So, thought I, I did it once, surely I can do it again. When, in September '02, Roc subsequently offerred me a two-book contract, I went for it (Low Red Moon was the first of the two books), and wrote most of Murder of Angels between February and November '03 (though I'd actually done about 100 pp. on it way back in 2000, then shelved them and wrote Low Red Moon, instead). But. Writing Murder of Angels, I discovered how tired I was, that I was faced with a deadline that wasn't appropriate to the novel I was writing, and that I never should have agreed to. Just because I'd done it once, I thought maybe I'd become the sort of author who can write a book a year. It would have been nice, because even writers like money, but it wasn't so. Indeed, forcing myself to try to do such a thing, coupled with all my other writing responsibilities, has wreaked havoc on my mind and body.
Poppy also wrote: Of course, as soon as I dare to ask for two or even three years between books -- assuming I get paid enough to make that feasible -- people will start saying things like, "Is she still writing?" and "Whatever happened to her?"
And this is very true. Or rather, this is what publisher's fear, and, by extension, what writers must also fear. As a whole, the reading public is fickle and seems to have a selectively short memory/attention span. I've been told that this contract change will mean that Daughter of Hounds won't be released until January '07, which means that more than two years will pass between the release of Murder of Angels and the release of Daughter of Hounds. That's a long time in "the industry" (though, in truth, even more time elapsed between Silk and Threshold). And it terrifies me. Sure, there will be specialty/small press releases in the interim, and I'll have short stories in books and magazines, but that's not the same thing. That dren's "off the radar."
Worrying about this sort of thing defeats the purpose of forcing myself to slow down. I just wanted to say "What she said," regarding Poppy's comments. Oh, and whoever the romance-writer tralk is who made the "sensitive Poppy, who can only write one book a year" comment should have her sensative anal regions visited by angry rhinoceras beetles.
We saw The Villiage last night (and if you haven't and want to, stop reading RIGHT THIS FRELLING SECOND). It was absolutely brilliant. We were, however, forced to suffer a Bad Audience in order to see it opening night. I haven't had to endure a Bad Audience in a very long time, as Spooky and I tend to try to stick to matinees and small, artsy theatres. The force of will required to stop myself from standing up and screaming at them, "This isn't funny, you emotionally stunted fuckwits!" almost killed me, I think. When Ivy confronts Noah after Lucius is attacked, the entire right side of the theatre burst into laughter. They did it again when Noah lay dying in the mud. But I somehow managed to enjoy the film despite the idiots. And it's a film I really have nothing but praise for (though I understand people are perceived as more intelligent when they give negative reviews, or at least temper their positive reviews with a few arbitrary complaints). The Villiage has a shot at being the best movie of the summer. See it at once.
And now I have to brush my teeth and dress myself.
12:59 PM
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