In Which Our Heroine Makes Pointless But Comforting Decisions

30 January 2005

Tonight I decided that the working nickname for the book I may write next instead of Zodiac House is The Big Chilly Icelandic Falcon, or, Thor Framed Roger Rabbit. You will be relieved to know that there will be no cartoons in it. Well, I hope you'll be relieved to know. With the rest of the book, you ought to be relieved to know, I think.

I think I should just admit two things: 1) I don't know what I'm writing when I'm done focusing on Thermionic Night revisions and 2) it doesn't really matter yet. I know I need to write something new instead of diving into Sampo revisions when I'm done with TN revisions for the time being. Revisions make me savage with myself. Snappish. If I am sensible, I will make room for some new short story work in this week's schedule, just to keep me something like balanced. Something more like balanced, maybe.

But to return to the point at hand: while I may end up reading Chandler and heaven knows what else in bulk while writing or revising the Aesir noir novel in question, it isn't one that requires much preparation of me right now. I know the tropes I'm poking, and I know the gods involved backwards, forwards, and inside out. (And what does a god look like inside out? Squishy. Definitely squishy.) And other potential books might take more research, but I can't be seriously researching every potential next novel; I'd never get this one revised. So instead I should just let it be and do the work in front of me.

But if I do this one next, I might escape The Mark of the Sea Serpent for awhile, and also Midnight Sun Rising and The Winter Wars. And sequels, related works, and YA fantasies in general are being avoided right now for reasons of practicality.

All metaphorical language about practicality is here deleted. Metaphors, we all know from Lydy's report of her young friend, are bad for you. At least they are when issuing from me at this hour.

Also I wrote the first 300 words of the Aesir noir novel last night, but that was an accident and I didn't mean to and it will totally not happen again, seriously, really.

Umm. Until it does.

I finished reading Ellis Peters's The Leper of St. Giles today and put it on my list for Grandpa to read; the ending seemed appropriate. It's nice to have another reliable mystery series to enjoy. And I started Stephan Zielinski's Bad Magic, which is interesting so far, but I'm not very far into it. I had gone a few books without anything speculative, and that starts to make my hair itch, but there are plenty of options for remedying that. I do not lack for book choices. Why? Because I am spoiled. You know that already.

Spoiled and boring, boring, boring. Tomorrow morning, when I'm allowing myself to work again, I'll go back to typing in revisions, typing up notes from my paper journal, and of course addressing the multicolored stack of notecards cluttering my desk. And driving me nuts. Which is why they're there: so they'll drive me nuts and I'll do something about them. Preferably something clever and preferably something efficient. But something.

And if I could get "Parcel of Rogues" out of my head, so much the better. The title makes it sound kind of cheerful and, well, roguish. Ummm, not so much, no. And it and "Death on Hennepin" have been chasing each other around my head. Sigh. Oh, the hardships I endure. Wailie wailie. Woe. Alack. You know the drill.

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