Monday, October 04, 2004
I've fallen, or slipped, into that place where the words aren't coming. And it's even affecting this journal. There's too much noise in my head. The noise obscures the words. The noise turns writing into a task not unlike finding Horton's particular Who-haunted clover after it's been dropped into a field of other, Who-less clover.
Lately, I've been wondering if I should even continue this journal. I mean, I started it to chronicle the writing of Low Red Moon (hence the name) and to promote the finished novel. Well, it served those purposes. Then I decided I'd extend it to cover the writing of another novel, Murder of Angels. That's done, too. Surely, by this time, I've said everything I've got to say about writing. Most of the time, it feels that way. It's become a comfortable habit. Maybe the journal has evolved beyond its original intent, rather than outliving that intent.
Maybe I should do another poll: Would you like to see this journal continue?
Maybe.
It doesn't help that I finally broke down and took Benadryl last night — for this damned cough — and it interacts with other drugs I take. I'm a zombie this afternoon, and not the running kind, either. The slow, lurching kind. And the cough isn't much better. And my dreams were even brighter and more insistent than usual.
Last night, we watched the last four eps of Season One of Dead Like Me. I'm now in love with this series.
Leh'agvoi has sent me a new Nar'eth pinup, and Sa'jathan has finished the Nebari alphabet/font he's been working on for quite some time. There should be new stuff at Nebari.net soonish.
And speaking of Farscape, it's just two weeks until the mini. Don't forget:
1:16 PM
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