well helloooo, Autumn!

Where you been all Summer?


Went to bed last night (okay, this morning) and thought 'wow, I don't need the fan tonight.' Woke up, and it was actually cool. Lovely cool, crisp air coming in through my window.

Happy suricata. Very very happy suricata.


Just wish I could share some of this weather-happiness with the folk along the Gulf Coast.


ETA: And I just met the most dashing fellow, who moved in downstairs last month. His name is Lance, and he's quite lovely, with dark hair and eyes, and a sleek but muscular build. And he took to me right away, which surprised his owner considerably. (silly people, Lance is a cat! Specifically, a Siamese. Yes, another Siamese. That makes four that I know of in this building alone. Interesting). He's a chocolate point, and reportedly another Pandora-like diva when it comes to other cats and people-not-his-owner. Could have fooled me, since I sat down and he came right on over and asked to be petted while his owner and I were talking.

Cats Know.

The Writing Life: a checkup

the symptoms:

-Eyestrain.
-Hand cramps.
-Back aches.
-Nervous ticks.
-Contusions from *headdesking* three times too many. Or was it four?


the diagnosis:

-Author is doing second pass of the draft, pen and (three different colors of) highlighters in hand, laptop on lap, reams of hand-written notes and comments nearby (currently under a sleeping cat, actually).


I actually sort of enjoy this part. Finding where it don't work, and figuring out what will make it work. Creating scenes that add layers and depth to otherwise simple plot twists and revelations. Shading and filling and fertilizing the soil where it all grows. This is where I begin to love the book again, seeing what it could be, what it should be, if I've finally gotten the skills to where they ought to be.

It's the next go round, when I read it and realize my skills are once again and forever not up to the task my imagination has set them, that I've blown half a dozen chances to make the plot sing like Kathleen Battle, the characters glow like molten silver... that's when the agent comes and taps me on the shoulder and says "surrender the manuscript, Gilman!" And I go hide for a week or two, and drown my self-hatred in something new, something shiny, something that still has the potential to be Really Good, Damn It...


Sometimes, knowing yourself/your work habits is a real drag. *wry grin*