Took a few days off from blogging (and some other things), a sorely needed break. Copyedit hangover is real, and the particular series I’m working on now is…well, the situation isn’t ideal, but one must carry on.
Once I get to the point of finding everything absurd I’ll be all right. It’s just taking a little longer than usual. And the look on my face–though you can’t see it–is the particular set expression of a woman who has Had It, is Dealing As Best She Can, and will Stab Something If She Has To. I’m tired of a lot of things lately, frankly, and ready for a bit of change.
Anyway, I’m within striking distance of finishing a couple different zero drafts. Yesterday I realized I’m only two (planned) scenes from finishing Riversinger and Minnowsharp (which used to be titled Fall of Waterstone, but I think that’ll change again in the future) which means that it’s probably more like six actual scenes. At this part of the process the things one must do in order to bloody well kill the draft tend to multiply exponentially, since it’s the last wicket to pass through before a completed zero. Getting so close one can taste the end is always difficult; I had to tear myself away last night and force my weary body into bed.
Pulling all-nighters isn’t good for me at this stage. Maybe in the next go-round.
The other zero nearing completion is Hell’s Acre, which has also had an extremely difficult birth. I’ve been writing the damn thing all during pandemic; I think that may be a great deal of the difficulty I’ve had with it. Now I’m tired, I think I’ve got twelve scenes left in the serial, and I just wrote a Really Big Reveal yesterday so at least things are moving. I’m ready to put this one to bed and move onto the next serial, which you guys are going to absolutely love–I know I keep saying that, but it’s so difficult to keep the secret. (And now you can imagine me fidgeting with glee.)
The other good news is that someone has finally gotten off their duff and there’s a line of fenceposts along the back edge of the yard. Not only that, but the giant pile of old, broken fencing that was killing my ferns has been removed. Someone else’s negligence caused the damage, so that person is finally stepping up to fix it, which is a welcome development. Now we have to wait for the concrete about the post-bottoms to cure, and things can move forward. Which will be such a vast relief, I can’t even tell you. I’ll be able to move laurel, holly, and lilac volunteers to their new places, and in a little while we’ll have a privacy screen.
It won’t be the cedars, but oh well. Good things are not good because they last, even if they do.
The coffee is almost finished and Boxnoggin is very eager for walkies. He’d gotten used to the shambles in the backyard, and now that it’s changed he is uneasy, clingy, and wants ritual and habit to soothe him. Poor fellow doesn’t deal with any deviation well, even the most pleasant. I’m not far behind at the moment; if one more damn thing goes wrong, I swear…
But the sooner I get Riversinger and the final book of the trilogy out of the way, the sooner my stress nausea will abate. I’m not quite at the “developing an ulcer” pitch anymore, so at least that’s something. Upwards and onwards, excelsior, and all that. And I’m going to read you lot a bit of Duras tomorrow, which I’m looking forward to.
Time to get moving.