I meant to get a solid night’s sleep, but come 2am my brain simply decided no, did you forget who you’re locked in here with? So there was a lot of staring, a whole lot of thinking, and not very much rest. Consequently I’m more tired than when I lay down, though I forced myself to stay still in the darkness, allowing the body some simulacrum of quietude.
At least it’s daylight now, and the weird wiggins that hit around three in the morning have passed. Boxnoggin’s presence kept them to a minimum, though his habit of burble-breathing into my armpit leaves a little to be desired. I don’t know why he’s so determined–maybe it’s the terrier in him? Maybe he finds the smell comforting? I mean, I can’t imagine who would, but here we are.
There are crocuses in the yard, and snowdrops in the back corner. Unfortunately the fellow whose negligence took the fence down is dragging his feet about replacing it. Good fences make good neighbors, and all that; I suppose I’m finding out which type he is. It’s enough to make me sigh heavily, not to mention pinch the bridge of my nose. Which is what the kids refer to as a warning sign.
I have to think whether I want the next scene in Hell’s Acre to be one I’ve already written. I’ll have to rip it apart and restructure, of course, but I think the bones are there. And if I get that done today I might moonlight with a bit of experimental writing, since Fall of Waterstone has gone quiet. I’m sure it’s just readying for the final push, and that my current low-energy state is simply the result of blazing through the proofs for Salt-Black Tree. They went well–the copyeditor for that particular book was a marvel and I’d love to work with her again–but even good stress is still stress, as the saying goes.
The duology is done, save perhaps a few leftover proofreader queries. It was a massive, wrecking effort, now I’m enduring the snapback. Plus steadily mounting nerves until release day, but that part’s normal. Always fun.
At least there’s coffee. And I took some time off this weekend to watch Altered Carbon‘s first season. My writing partner was right, it suited me very well though I will not be reading the books. I also won’t be watching Season Two, since I think the first ended perfectly, but the noir body-hopping was precisely what I needed and I enjoyed it very much. It had the right ending, not the happy ending, and you know how I feel about that. It makes me want to Franken-bolt something similar to some Jupiter Ascending fanfic, since I love that movie desperately but it didn’t fulfill even a fraction of its potential.
I know the huge problem in my doldrums is feeling behind on Waterstone. There’s nothing for it but putting my head down and plodding through. This is the endurance part of the game, where a lot of washing out happens. I’ll feel better once the decompression sickness from finishing proofs abates, and especially once I get another zero draft dusted. There’s no shortage of work, but stoppages elsewhere in the book pipelines have left me feeling nervous, and it’s difficult to write when one’s physically ill besides. Art takes all types of energy, and when that force is being spent on questions of bare survival…well.
In any case, I have frameworks for both books on the burners now, a piece of fic to play hooky with, and walkies with Boxnoggin to clear my head and get everything inside me jolted into place. The movement will help, even if I’m dragging.
A book is a marathon, and I’m often running multiple ones at once. It would be nice to take an actual break, but heaven knows I’d get itchy-edgy and end up with another story falling out of my head. For better or worse, this is the rocket I’m bound to.
Time for some breakfast.