Resistance Is Futile

Hey, you. Yes, you, the novel I’m writing. Don’t you dare stand there and look innocent. Listen up.

Resistance is futile. You will be written. We can do this the hard way–I’ll keep going through blood and thunder, and we’ll continue fighting all the way through zero draft and initial revision–or the easy way, where you just open up and let me see the whole thing. Either way, you will be written. I know vaguely what happens, and I have no compunction about throwing a wrench or two until the Muse sits up and takes notice. (Oh, yes, my Muse, I’ve noticed that you’re just laying there instead of working. What, you think I’m blind? No more bonbons until you get cracking.)

Because as much as you want to jerk me around, dear novel-I’m-writing, mine are still the fingers you’re going to have to go through in order to be fully born instead of remaining half-dreamed what-ifs. I’ve been patient, and I’ve been kind. Today I am intent and focused.

You’ve been warned.

In other news, last week just flew by, including our trip to the Oregon coast. Cannon Beach was lovely this weekend; the weather was great and the driving shook loose a lot of plot points inside my head. We also visited Seaside and Astoria, and in the end it was a very sleepy and sandy crew who arrived home, exhausted but happy, yesterday. It was nice to go and have fun, but even nicer to come back. I travel well, but there’s nothing like home.

This weekend also taught me that I’m a lot better at navigation than I ever thought possible, especially with a compass stuck to my dashboard. Who’d’vethunkit? For a long time I’ve been the sort of person who could get lost going down to the corner store. No longer. Of course, most of the credit goes to the GPS on my phone and the relief of having a reliable car. But I’ll still take a definite slice of credit for being willing to get lost in the first place.

Now I’ve got a vampire attack to revise and some teenage-male territorial snorting and grunting to write. It should be fun; and it will keep my mind off the slow-burning irritation I’ve been feeling most of the day.

At least, it will give me something to channel that irritation toward. Hey, whatever works. No matter what I’m feeling, it all goes to serve the work. Everything goes into that maw, one way or another. It gets chewed up and transmogrified, and at the end of the day I’ve remade the world.

You hear that, novel-I’m-writing? One way or another. That’s a promise. *cracks knuckles*

Over and out.

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