What happened to February?
Yeah, I got nothing. I wrote stuff, honest. There was that Multiverse scene rewrite that kicked my butt repeatedly and some new fiction, and I probably spent too much time on social media again.
David Weber has THE ROAD TO HELL. He has not yet threatened me with bodily harm for the damage I’ve done to our original outline. Also, Sharon Rice-Weber has not said anything about yours truly never being allowed to work with him again. This is all a very good sign.
There are contracts and rumors of contracts. And I will now take this opportunity to not so stealthily point out that I could be drafting work for any of those possibly-to-be-contracted works even now as you read this.
I know that some people ::cough, cough, David Weber, cough:: have built the mad skills necessary to turn out a 200,000 word novel in a month and edit it in the next six weeks. I’ve studied how he does it. A large portion of the success criteria involves him sitting in a chair in front of his computer for sixteen hour stretches day after day. Working to a very detailed outline seems part of it too. I can emulate some of those work ethic behaviors, but the highly developed storyteller’s instinct for what’s working and what isn’t is not a part of my tool kit yet. I wants it! We wants it, My Precious!
Ahem! Excuse me.
Mere mortals such as myself still write ourselves into dead ends routinely and need longer to produce a legible first draft. I have no idea when delivery dates for the next book or story might be. I don’t even have a contract. But I’m a natural worrywart. And I have begun fretting about missing a deadline for work I haven’t even been contracted to do. Some people might consider this a sign of borderline psychosis. I like to call it “planning ahead."
So if anyone out there would like to send me money for words, please go ahead and tell me what you want. The sooner you do, the sooner I can start engaging in hand-to-hand combat with my muse. The words who are about to die salute you.
Yeah, I got nothing. I wrote stuff, honest. There was that Multiverse scene rewrite that kicked my butt repeatedly and some new fiction, and I probably spent too much time on social media again.
David Weber has THE ROAD TO HELL. He has not yet threatened me with bodily harm for the damage I’ve done to our original outline. Also, Sharon Rice-Weber has not said anything about yours truly never being allowed to work with him again. This is all a very good sign.
There are contracts and rumors of contracts. And I will now take this opportunity to not so stealthily point out that I could be drafting work for any of those possibly-to-be-contracted works even now as you read this.
I know that some people ::cough, cough, David Weber, cough:: have built the mad skills necessary to turn out a 200,000 word novel in a month and edit it in the next six weeks. I’ve studied how he does it. A large portion of the success criteria involves him sitting in a chair in front of his computer for sixteen hour stretches day after day. Working to a very detailed outline seems part of it too. I can emulate some of those work ethic behaviors, but the highly developed storyteller’s instinct for what’s working and what isn’t is not a part of my tool kit yet. I wants it! We wants it, My Precious!
Ahem! Excuse me.
Mere mortals such as myself still write ourselves into dead ends routinely and need longer to produce a legible first draft. I have no idea when delivery dates for the next book or story might be. I don’t even have a contract. But I’m a natural worrywart. And I have begun fretting about missing a deadline for work I haven’t even been contracted to do. Some people might consider this a sign of borderline psychosis. I like to call it “planning ahead."
So if anyone out there would like to send me money for words, please go ahead and tell me what you want. The sooner you do, the sooner I can start engaging in hand-to-hand combat with my muse. The words who are about to die salute you.
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