It has major logic problems because it started out as a genre/mystery and I took that out and replaced it with this property thing and that sucks so I've been undercutting that and now it's just these two big mysteries that our main character should have figured out years ago but has to stumble backwards into while freaking out over twenty-one other major crises.
Okay, that's not so bad. I mean I like that kind of story. Fine! It's okay.
It's not DONE though. Instead of writing it right now, I'm doing this! Hahahahaha! Oooh. Because I'm listening to some old MBMBAM episode with Lin-Manuel Miranda before he even put Hamilton out there. In other words: procrastination!
I have a list of scenes I need to write. I'm just going to write them. And then there's a couple of long talky sections that make me want to slam my head in a drawer, but instead I'll just sum them up in my mind and cut them out and rewrite them from scratch. That's what you have to do pretty much.
Must not ooze over to this terrific 30k draft and work on that instead...noooooo!
Must say to self: "Self, go write the damn book. Just write one of those stupid scenes. Then go punch the speed bag for a while. Then come back and write another one of those stupid scenes."
Don't wanna! It's so weird, I don't even know why. It's not that I'm avoiding work. I went through this entire book multiple times day after day fixing major things, like doing a pass to remove the mystery plot and doing a pass to change this one character from one thing to another, and another pass to remove these other dudes and a subplot, and another one to completely change and massage the shape of the relationship arc. SO MANY MORE PASSES NEEDED.
It's just so much better to write a book straight through in a row without pretzeling yourself into an infinity shape where you have to keep going around and around and over and over everything.
This isn't even about making it GOOD yet. This is all about making it hang together and make sense. UGH.
I just really prefer telling a story in a straight line, where someone makes a choice and that has consequences and then they make more choices to deal with the consequences and that causes more consequences and so on until boom!
I've noticed that someone I like to have books and stories end with someone very high up. Like, physically high up. It's kind of a funny thing to discover. One ended up on top of a tall building in Burbank. One had someone climb a mountain, get taken off in a helicopter, then land on the roof of a hospital. Hard to get higher up than that. Maybe a balloon or plane or spacecraft.
I'm feeling a PROFOUND pull toward space opera after soaking in and delighting in Jupiter Ascending and being reminded that my favorite thing is space opera. I live for Farscape, dude! And I have this whole series of books that are space opera! I think I wrote two complete ones and then half of three others.
Just thinking about tackling rewrites of those antiques makes me want to lie down with the covers pulled over my head.
Whereas thinking about writing fun new space opera makes me tired but also happy?
Anyway I'm all wobbly and boneless today again because I took one of my prescription non-freakout pills per night for the past three nights. I'm going to have to quit taking them because I have gotten slightly more than zero writing done since I started. Sure, they allow me to sleep, and I'm all mellow and happy and sleepy and dopey, but I have things to do, dude! Time is slipping away! Work starts in a month and I have meetings coming up for both places I'm working, online and real world.
I'm already pretty happy about all of the work I've gotten done in this middle time. I mean, I wrote a whole novel that I'm pleased with. That's fantastic. But I judge my days by how much I get done and I'm getting nothing done.
That's not quite true. A couple of days ago I got utterly fed up with the stupid metal bed frame. I haven't been sleeping well on that bed, even buttressed with bookcases, so I took apart the day bed that pulls out to be queen sized from its resting twin size (Hemnes daybed at Ikea if you're curious) and brought it back into the bedroom and moved the metal frame/feet back to the guest/writing room, and it was all brutally hard work and my back is killing me.
And THEN I discovered that the new mattress is much heavier and made the slats sag, so I had to buy a bunkie board and do all this surgery on it. I had to take apart one end and saw the boards and shorten it and then reassemble the end and staplegun the covering back on. It was kind of brutal. It fits exactly perfectly now, though, and the bed is fabulously, gloriously comfortable and secure feeling.
It's hard to explain what was wrong with it before. It was a mattress on a bed frame. Like normal. I mean. It's just a bed. But it was too high and too narrow and too scary and then when I buttressed with bookcases it was too closed in and too stifling, and I hated having my back to the doorway. I kept feeling like someone was standing there. I had to take down my bathrobe that usually hangs over the door because I thought it was someone, even though that robe has been hanging there for fifteen months.
So I moved the bed 90 degrees, back under the eaves, and put it on the old daybed, which is much wider than the mattress, so I have a headboard, and walls at both sides of the head, and extra space to the side, so dog doesn't feel like he has to cram himself against me all night or risk falling off.
In other words, I probably don't need the anti-freakout pills anymore. I'm supposed to take 1-2 every night as needed but I would be just a puddle on the floor if I did that.
I'm just hoping that there's enough air flow under the eaves when it heats up again. That's why I moved it out in the first place. But oh boy is it ever louder by the door! Something about the angle to the window, I guess? The road noise was unbearable. It hasn't gotten any quieter but it bothers me much less under the eaves.
Someone is doing construction maybe a half mile directly in front of me as I sit at my desk. Speaking of loud intrusive noises. I cannot wait until I'm able to live in my very own house in a quiet place. I'll just peacefully fantasize about moving over there by loading up my trailer each day and driving over and unloading it. Mmmmm. Yes, very nice. Ooh, it's a good triangular house.
Now I want to make weird animal heads out of metal and weird stuff to hang up like those mounted deer heads. That would be AWESOME. Fun art project for me, eh? Like my ongoing lamp-making situation.
There's a cardinal outside! I haven't seen one of those here before. Look out for the bobcat, cardinal! Though the barred owl has been eating all the little critters, so maybe the bobcat has relocated to easier hunting grounds. Twice in the past week the barred owl has swooped down right outside my office window at night to eat the mice that run between the woods and the house, scaring the heck out of me both times. First there's a rush of ammonia out of nowhere, then there's some sudden loud hooting that seems to be coming from inside the room. Gaaaaaah!
Some mourning doves were doing something in the yard when we went out today, too. Or possibly that neighbor cat was messing with them? I don't know. We went out, there was a ruckus on the ground, two birds flew away, and the dog went crazy running around and sniffing everything. Could also have been a hawk that had caught one of the mourning doves, though they seem big for a hawk. I heard them calling after, though. The mourning doves, not the hawk.
Isn't life just scintillating around here? I know! I also moved a round rug from one room to the other!
It's okay, the more writing I'm doing, the less interesting life is, so it's all a good sign. And I keep completely forgetting to drink my tea! And then it gets cold! Can you imagine? Dude.
I looked at too many timber framed A-frame designs and I can tell you this: they are all badly proportioned. The ceilings are far too high. The rooms will be uncomfortable to sit in, like you're in the bottom of a bucket. And definitely they'll be drafty and impossible to heat. We don't normally hang around in rooms with twenty foot ceilings for a reason, especially in colder climates.
I'm so sore from heaving that mattress all over creation (off the frame, from bedroom to writing room and back to bedroom, on the frame, off the frame, back on the frame) that I can hardly put my hands on the keyboard, which might be another factor in the non-writing. Though I sure managed to drivel on here forever, huh?
Fine. ONE SCENE. I'm on it.