(and dunk me in glitter and call me Sheila if that ain’t a Tennessee Williams play title)
It is July, and it is summer. Man, is it summer. I’ve got an odd brown thing on my skin – some people say this is a ‘tan’, but that is so far unsubstantiated. I think it may be the long awaited start of my mutation from half-man/half-teacher to full Brown Bear.
Writing is good; it feels like the levee is finally breaking on the screenplay, which is probably good as I have informed the High and Mighty that it shall be turned in on Thursday*. It’s also necessary, I think, to push that one away so other people can deal with it and it stops clogging up my brain with things that Need to be Fixed. It’s been great fun though.
Book 2 is creeping ever-so-slowly towards 80.000 words. Now, a story is a story is a story, and it is what it is and all that – but for me, the ridiculous task of writing a novel can only be comprehended if I think about it in targets. For me, the 80k word target is a natural one, as that is when a manuscript is ‘considered to be of novel length’. Proper Fantasy Writers laugh quite hard at this – Brandon Sanderson’s shopping lists are usually in the 20.000 word range, and Patrick Rothfuss has never uttered a sentence under novelette length – but it makes sense to me, so it will be quite a big psychological step when the manuscript creeps over 80k, which should (barring disasters) happen this week.
So that is the state of play at the moment, and with that I return to the imaginary world of some messed up people messing things up.
It’s going to get messy.