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Having sent Glamour (yay! it has a title that I can call it now!) off for editing, phase 1, my brain is divided on the things we should do next.
The happy, productive part is bouncing up and down going "Good job! We should write something! Write something!" It does not, unfortunately, specify what that "something" should be.
The lazy, overworked part is busy lying on the couch, staring out into the torrential downpour and going "Are you kidding? Gimme some tea, some books, and leave me the hell alone. The draft stinks anyway. You're never going to fix the shit that is chapter 20, so suck it." I'm not too fond of that side of my brain right now, but it does have a point with the tea and the book.
Plus, I have a weird urge to do a lot of research on rusalka and domovoi. I tried to get my mom to give me some tips on finding Russian balladry back in February for Greer Gilman, but she's been so busy she flaked and probably forgot about it long ago. Getting back to my mythic roots or something?
It's weird. When I was in college I was writing these stories about my ex and one of my professors looked at me and said "You moved to this country and had this incredible formative experience? Why the hell are you writing about coffee shops and exes?" And I honestly tried to write about my experiences then, but no matter how hard I squeezed, it wouldn't get anywhere.
Having read as much as I have lately, I think it has something to do with the format and structure of the story. When we were moving it was a novel. Things blended together - one thing led to another and it was a long narrative. I was trying to write short stories - single moments in time, a point at which change happens - because that was the scope of the course. But my immigration wasn't a short story - it was a novel. And my difficulty reflects that.
This leads to all sorts of deep navel-gazing as to what I want to write when I'm finished with the trilogy. But at the moment, the "when" is rather optimistic on my part.
Eh, all navel-gazing aside, I should finish The Faery Reel so that I may squee about it in an unhindered fashion.
The happy, productive part is bouncing up and down going "Good job! We should write something! Write something!" It does not, unfortunately, specify what that "something" should be.
The lazy, overworked part is busy lying on the couch, staring out into the torrential downpour and going "Are you kidding? Gimme some tea, some books, and leave me the hell alone. The draft stinks anyway. You're never going to fix the shit that is chapter 20, so suck it." I'm not too fond of that side of my brain right now, but it does have a point with the tea and the book.
Plus, I have a weird urge to do a lot of research on rusalka and domovoi. I tried to get my mom to give me some tips on finding Russian balladry back in February for Greer Gilman, but she's been so busy she flaked and probably forgot about it long ago. Getting back to my mythic roots or something?
It's weird. When I was in college I was writing these stories about my ex and one of my professors looked at me and said "You moved to this country and had this incredible formative experience? Why the hell are you writing about coffee shops and exes?" And I honestly tried to write about my experiences then, but no matter how hard I squeezed, it wouldn't get anywhere.
Having read as much as I have lately, I think it has something to do with the format and structure of the story. When we were moving it was a novel. Things blended together - one thing led to another and it was a long narrative. I was trying to write short stories - single moments in time, a point at which change happens - because that was the scope of the course. But my immigration wasn't a short story - it was a novel. And my difficulty reflects that.
This leads to all sorts of deep navel-gazing as to what I want to write when I'm finished with the trilogy. But at the moment, the "when" is rather optimistic on my part.
Eh, all navel-gazing aside, I should finish The Faery Reel so that I may squee about it in an unhindered fashion.
