The revised draft of this novel is due in to my editor in about a week and a half. Plus, due to problems with my financial institution, I’m going to have to do all my tax-related work in the same span of time.
So, naturally, my brain is trying to write three short stories at once.
Argh.
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Copy-edits are here, all five hundred forty pages of ’em.
Dear Self: please to be writing shorter books in the future, kthxbye.
With Fate Conspire is revised and off to L’Editor.
***
Length of final draft: 157,000 words
Length of kill-file, containing material longer than a sentence or two cut during the process: 57,000 words
***
Dear Whichever God Rules Over Novelists,
What do I have to sacrifice to you in order to guarantee that my next novel will not require me to write thirty-six percent more material than I actually use? Lemme know, and I’ll get right on that.
Your obt. servt.,
A Very Tired Writer
Dear Book,
Don’t think you’re safe just because I’m not using the angry kitten icon anymore. That’s Hel up there, and she will cut you.
But we may — may — have resolved the problem. By dint of doing . . . not a lot, actually. Going back to a plan that fell by the wayside, and trying to find some way to insert more downtime at a particular point. Easy enough on Eliza’s side; I just have to find some justification for why Dead Rick’s plot can skip over a month or so. If I can do that, everything else is fine; I don’t have to redate two-thirds of the book or work around historical events or anything of the sort. Just a bit of downtime, and I’m set.
So long as I can find a way to do that. Don’t ask me how; that’s a problem I’ll tackle tomorrow.
You’re still in the doghouse, though. I knew you were going to be the biggest bastard of the series — and that’s saying something, after the difficulties I had writing Ashes and Star — but you’ve been outdoing yourself, really. Any time you want to start being cooperative, feel free.
Slightly less inclined to light you on fire, but still thinking about it,
Your Writer
Dear Book:
I hate you.
No, really. We’ve gotten to that stage of the writing, the stage where I really just want to light you on fire. It happens almost every book (except for the rare ones that just sail straight out of my head — of which you are SO not one), but this time, I really, really mean it. Why? Because I just figured out that I could solve about 90% of my pacing problems . . . by moving your start date back three months.
This falls into the category of “annoying change” rather than “major seismic upheaval,” since most of what I have to do is change the dates on scenes. But that’s about 100K worth of scenes I have to re-date
FUCK I just realized that doesn’t work.
Because there’s a scene that has to happen on a specific date, and that specific date is before what I thought would be the new start date. But there are other events that have to happen on other specific dates, and SON OF A BITCH I HATE YOU.
<beats head into desk>
Never again, people. Never again. I am so very done with this historical fiction thing, where I can’t just decide when stuff happens because history says otherwise. I’ve been doing this for four books, and I will never subject myself to it again*.
I’m sure I’ll find a way through this. But it is going to cost a lot of pain and suffering along the way. (It already has.) And right now, I kinda want to light the book on fire.
No love at all,
Your Writer.
*Of course I’m lying. It’s like childbirth. In a few years, when I’ve forgotten the pain, I’ll probably decide this is a good idea again. But right now, I mean it.
Dear Dead Rick,
I’m sorry I’m a horrible person.
Tomorrow morning kurayami_hime will read this and say, “You’re not sorry at all,” and she’ll kind of be right — but I have to say it anyway. Because one of your levers is more like a giant knife sticking out of your heart, and sometimes I just have to give it a good twist.
Sorry.
If it’s any comfort, I suspect you have some RIGHTEOUS FURY OF REVENGE scenes coming up later in the book. It’s got that feel in my head, even if I don’t know the specifics yet. I hope that helps.
Love and apologies,
A mean, mean person
Dear Brain,
No. No, no, no, no, NO.
There are many things we need right now — an answer to the question the stranger just asked Dead Rick, a precise outline for how Eliza and Miss Kittering are going to achieve a state of conflict-balance, some sense of what’s going on with the Society — but NONE of them are the premise for a random secondary-world YA fantasy series.
Even if it involves an order of holy lady knights who run around spying for the Queen they’re sworn to protect.
You know perfectly well what this is. We’ve entered into the Stage of Oooh Shiny, where everything looks enticing except the book we’re supposed to be writing. Put the shiny down, and get back to Victorian England.
(After all, I’ve already written half a page of notes for the YA-knights idea. Maybe we can do more later tonight.)
Er, I mean, NO! No new shiny. Work on old shiny instead. I promise, there’s plenty of fun to be had there.
Not nearly as cross as she should be,
Your Writer
Come on, brain. We only need 150 more words, and then we can stop for tonight. And yes, that does mean you’ll have to figure out just what Dead Rick thinks he’s accomplishing by going to La Madura, but we’ve got to make a decision on that sooner or later. If it’s sooner, that means we can spend tomorrow thinking about its ramifications, and that will make tomorrow’s writing easier.
Of course, it would help if we knew what Dead Rick is supposed to be finding. And we already skipped over that one to start tonight’s work. This skipping-details thing, it is not working out so well for us.
Dear Brain,
I refused to start official work on this book yesterday, because it just seemed inauspicious, but because also because I still didn’t know why Eleanor was working for the Kitterings. Today I woke up and you handed me the answer. So I guess we can, in fact, get started today, and for that, Brain, I thank you.
Now I don’t suppose you have any ideas about that trouble Dead Rick ought to be in . . . ?
Hopefully,
Your Writer
Dear Brain,
I recognize that you’re trying to be helpful and all, and I appreciate it. But it would be lovely if you could offer help with “Mad Maudlin” (which I’m trying to finish) or the Victorian book (which I’m about to start) or That Thing We Can’t Talk About (which I need to do), rather than the opening line for a sequel to a short story I haven’t sold yet.
Just saying.
Having said that, it is a pretty fun opening line.
Dear Cayce,
I know you’re tired of receiving Well-Intentioned Parental Advice, but there are a few things every young woman should know before she goes to Hell.
Back to the things we should be doing . . . .
Love,
Your Writer
Dear Brain,
Did we really need to run upstairs so as to type out 563 words belonging to the third book of a trilogy for which we have not yet written the first book?
Did we really?
I mean, what you interrupted was the cleaning of the living room, so it’s no big loss, but still. Devoting that energy in a slightly more productive direction would be appreciated.
Thanks in advance,
Swan
Dear Brain,
Yeah, you know, that character, the one who’s really important to the reason why the dead guy is dead? The character we haven’t yet mentioned once in over eleven thousand words of story?
Yeah, him.
We’re going to have to find ways to work him into these scenes — along with hints of the Very Important Relationship he has to that other character, so it doesn’t come out of freaking left field the way it’s about to in the next thousand words. Because you’ve hung a key component of this story on that character and his Very Important Relationship, and the whole novela/ette is going to fall resoundingly on its face if that gets chucked in ex machina.
This is what you get for not bothering to figure out who he was until it was time to bring him in. How were we supposed to bring him in if we didn’t know who he WAS yet? This is how we end up eleven thousand words into the story and he’s still offstage. You brought this on yourself, you know.
Ah, well. That’s what revision is for.
Still miffed,
–Your Writer
Dear Brain,
When I said I was going to work on short stories, I meant I was going to try and reduce the backlog of half-started ideas. That was not an open invitation to half-start something new.
Especially something that of all things in the world kind of resembles “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh.”
Especially when that means I’ll go to bed with that song stuck in my head.
Cut it out, and go back to developing the sacrilicious idea. Even better, stop being so finicky about working on “Chrysalis.” STOP ADDING TO THE LIST.
Love and kisses,
Swan
Warning: graphic metaphor ahead.
***
I currently have the vivisected body of Part IV lying in front of me. (Figuratively speaking; I’m working with an electronic file, not one of my cover-the-floor-with-paper stunts.) I’ve sliced it open and gone to work moving things around: transplants for a few organs, repairs to others, a bit of experimental reconnection that I’m hoping will work. Generally, I feel good about the changes. Having it lying there all bloody is making me nervous, though, because this revision is due on the 17th, and I’d feel a lot better if I could stitch this part up and get it on its feet again, so it can walk around a bit and tell me if anything isn’t functioning the way it needs to.
I can’t, though, because it doesn’t have a liver. There was one before, but it never worked all that well — just well enough to pass — and I’m pretty sure it can’t handle the load the new transplants will place on it. And while a liver isn’t so vital of an organ that you’ll keel over on the spot if yours is kind of gimpy, it isn’t an appendix, either; we really want one that works. So I need a new liver, and I need it in the next week. And I can’t go stitching up the body until I have one, because I’d just have to cut it apart again to put the thing in, and besides, there’s stuff that needs the liver to run right. Which means I’m increasingly fretting about how much work it’ll take to stitch the body up again, and how frantically I’ll have to work to get that done once I have the damn liver.
Fretting, in case you were wondering, is not good for productivity.
There are other things I can work on, and I’m going to do those, so I don’t have to do them post-liver transplant. But it’s harder than usual to trust my usual work pattern — namely, that the idea will show up by the time I need it. Generally it does, and I know from experience that I’ll get better results if I relax and let the hindbrain do what it has to. Unfortunately, that doesn’t silence the little voice whispering but what will you do if it doesn’t . . . .
I’d feel a lot better if I just had the goddamned liver already.
Dear Brain: I’ve had a stressful year. Please don’t add to it any more than you have to. (And consider very carefully what goes on the “have to” list.)
Off to work, while I wait for the liver to arrive.
Dear Brain,
Put the Victorian Age down and back away from it, slowly.
Why? Because you aren’t ready to write that book yet. You know it and I know it; there’s no disagreement there. But do you know what will happen if you do another nosedive into research like last time? You will get sick of the Victorian period, before you even start writing the book. So slow down. That deadline is not for another ten months.
Play with this shiny over here instead. Wouldn’t you rather be reading YA urban fantasies than books about the Victorian sewer system?
Wouldn’t you?
I’d appreciate more than just a grudging nod, Brain. Or else I’m going to start thinking there’s something deeply wrong with you.
That’s better. The Victorian Age will still be waiting when you come back, don’t worry. And in the meantime, we’re going to have fun with some other things.
Affectionately,
Your Writer
Dear Brain,
Why?
No, seriously. I know I asked you for ideas. But did you have to come up with this? I don’t know if you remember, but we just did the research thing a few bleeding months ago. Is that really what we need to be doing again? I mean, come on.
Yes, it’s a shiny idea. But still.
Okay, okay. Yes. This might be a good thing. Let me sleep on it, okay? STOP PESTERING ME. I have a game tonight, and need to stop thinking about the Shiny! If it really is shiny, it’ll still be shiny tomorrow. You know how this works by now.
So yeah. Knock it off already.
With slightly murderous affection,
–Your Writer
