Just before dawn it was clear, but as I’ve been at the computer, mist has risen from the earth, hanging in the trees. It’s a nice way to begin, and I have the short story slated for today. I’m either going to finish it, or get it to a place where it can be finished soon.
I don’t know what it is about short stories–each time, I have an idea that will work, I pursue it, and then I have to throw it out and come at it sideways, and I end up with a completely different story that is unrelated in a specific way to the original one. The original one, half-born, waits around until it becomes a second attempt at a completely different short story. Unlike my novel process, the short story process doesn’t change with each one. But still, I would rather write novel or novella-length than short story. I find shorts difficult, temperamental, nerve-wracking. It’s good practice, but like many other good-practice things, it’s uncomfortable and I’m always glad when it’s done.
My dreams have been odd of late, even for me. Coherent stories, but…odd. Escaping from Soviet Russia, cakes with hard, bittersweet chocolate shells, bonfires of paint. It’s not even a mental housecleaning, it’s like a very particular frequency of static, a burst right before one starts receiving an alien signal. Added to this, the crows on my morning run have begun greeting me, and we play little games, which Miss B doesn’t like. She hates chasing things that can fly, their taunting disturbs her but she’s helpless to stop.
I know you guys are waiting for the second half of Napoleon’s interrupte. I’ll write it when I’m ready, thank you.
And now, back to the short story. Either it or I will perish today. *buckles in*
What is it with
Slowly absorbing my coffee this morning while glancing out the office window. Tree branches silhouetted against the slowly-lightening sky, strengthening daylight picking out details in bark and moss.
The
So the Little Prince and I both have the same deep chest cough and general meh. It did not stop me from going out and doing a short (just a couple miles, I swear!) run today, though by the end of the second mile I was awful glad that all I had to do was walk home. I’ve just now amped up my training schedule, I can’t afford to lose a day. I’m going to drink a tonne of tea and water, and make chicken soup tonight, and generally baby both myself and the little ones. (It’s Finals Week for the Princess, which probably means she needs the babying more than she’ll ever admit.)
So yeah, today I hit 40K on The Ripper Affair. Which means the deadly slog of the Middle of the Book is nigh, and I’m not sure I can outlast this mofo. This is the point during every book where I completely doubt my ability to endure long enough that the goddamn book gets tired and finishes first.
I always laugh when anyone tells me how glamourous it must be to be a writer.

So this morning my writing partner send me