No Patience for Anything

stabbity Well, it’s Monday, and the world is wrapped in mist. It looks like a Stephen King story out there–the wrong season for Strawberry Spring, but very close to The Mist. There doesn’t seem to be any tentacles lurking in it, but if there are, I am antsy enough to put on a burst of speed and escape. I knew all that agility training, tripping over a dancing Australian Shepherd, would pay off eventually.

Every big season shift means I rework my running playlist. This time around, there’s a lot of BeyoncĂ© added, and some Rain since iTunes finally added a few of his albums. Odd Trundles is a Formation fan; whenever he’s in the office and it’s playing he dances around, excited by the beat.

A lot of stuff that was on the soundtrack for The Marked has been shifted off, and I’ll do a soundtrack post for that book soon. It’s kind of sad to be putting that book to bed, it was in my head for so long. The beginning, in particular, has been haunting me for years. To finally have it gone is liberating, but each book that goes out into the world also leaves a sort of hole–a tooth socket, if you will. You can tell something is missing in your internal architecture.

The weekend passed in a blur of chores, as weekends tend to do nowadays. I’m glad it’s over and I can get back to producing actual wordcount instead of just 200 measly words or so in between hoovering, cleaning the cavy cage, attacking the kitchen counters with a rag, brushing and washing dogs, doing laundry. I just don’t feel right when I don’t write. It’s like the I-need-a-run itchiness, but more painful.

So, today I am in a Mood. No patience for anything except getting the zombie apocalypse characters to a bigger city and getting everyone in Harmony full of the approaching dread. I need both stories cleared out of the zero phase so I can turn all my engines to Afterwar, which is beginning to take on the aspect of a monstrous headache. All the research is bubbling and boiling in the back of my skull, but it’s still subconscious. My conscious mind is stretched in a thin Saran Wrap film over the shape of the series, pokings and stirrings underneath disturbing the orderly flow of everything else. Some find this the most pleasant part of a book, where one is excited about the upcoming thing but one hasn’t put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and started fucking up the perfect imaginary whole. I often like this feeling of the book boiling and getting ready, but not for this particular project. Of course, it probably doesn’t help that the project’s been orphaned at least once now. *eyeroll*

Anyway, I am going to go take my sharp edges and see if sweat can dull them a little. Miss B will be displeased with the clamminess outside turning her coat into a fuzzball, but it can’t be hlped and truth be told, she looks so goddamn cute when she poufs up I cannot resist giving her a double dose of pets and “who’s a good girl”s.

Last but not least, happy Indigenous People’s Day.

Over and out.