Thud: On Roadstead Farm
Jun. 4th, 2013 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leahbobetJune 3-4, 2013 Progress Notes:
On Roadstead Farm
Words today: 400 yesterday, 1700 today.
Words total: 86,100.
Reason for stopping: My hands are giving out. And P. is home from work, and now we shall make dinner. I committed to a contribution of roasted asparagus and grape tomatoes with garlic and olive oil and mmm--
Darling du Jour: A place where sound and air and light just…weren't. Where you could cut the belly from a storm; slice open the throat of a clear night sky.
I looked back, a half-dozen or a thousand steps into my homestead. There was a name for this after all; the infinitesimal and unbridgeable ground between me and warm fires of home. It was the distance between people: The ones you loved, the ones you hated. Everyone in the universe was farther away than the stars.
Mean Things: Blew up a tree! Wildfires! Ultimate, awful lostness. The choice, small and echoing, at the middle of this whole thing. Taking, as Scott Pilgrim puts it, a look at yourself.
Research Roundup: Kinds of fiddle music; how biracial babies can vary on the melanin spectrum.
Books in progress:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
matociquala, Range of Ghosts.
Kind of unintentionally, I took the weekend off. I woke up Saturday and my hands were curling up with RSI, and decided that they, and my brain, needed to recover a little bit or things were going to get unproductively bad around here. And this seems to have been the right decision. My palms don't viscerally hurt right now, and P. noted last night, after what was a bit of a pushy, partial work day, that I seemed in a much better mood: that I was cooking again, and singing while I did it.
But time is moving, and If I do not finish the book this week I'll just have to do it next week.
So we're back to HOW I SAVED THE WORLD TO PUT OFF CLEANING THE HENHOUSE:
Back through what I had of Chapter 19, and to the end of it. I feel right now that it is flimsy and awful. I'm not sure if that's just the mental fatigue talking, or if it is kind of awful, but either way, that'll get fixed in the next draft and not now. Rocked right through Chapter 20, and we are into Chapter 21. Best thing: I have found the turn. I found the choice that makes everything after. I am trying to treat it carefully, with space, and light, and love.
That is the end of the section.
I am also mildly annoyed because there is a character I have thought about making queer, because it spikes a stereotypical thing. But then it spikes the non-stereotypical thing I've been setting up all book, so. FEH.
The rest of Chapter 21 goes down tomorrow. I probably have four or five more left after that, depending on how fast they get their act together, and how much I don't want to be drafting and just make the plot go.
On Roadstead Farm
Words today: 400 yesterday, 1700 today.
Words total: 86,100.
Reason for stopping: My hands are giving out. And P. is home from work, and now we shall make dinner. I committed to a contribution of roasted asparagus and grape tomatoes with garlic and olive oil and mmm--
Darling du Jour: A place where sound and air and light just…weren't. Where you could cut the belly from a storm; slice open the throat of a clear night sky.
I looked back, a half-dozen or a thousand steps into my homestead. There was a name for this after all; the infinitesimal and unbridgeable ground between me and warm fires of home. It was the distance between people: The ones you loved, the ones you hated. Everyone in the universe was farther away than the stars.
Mean Things: Blew up a tree! Wildfires! Ultimate, awful lostness. The choice, small and echoing, at the middle of this whole thing. Taking, as Scott Pilgrim puts it, a look at yourself.
Research Roundup: Kinds of fiddle music; how biracial babies can vary on the melanin spectrum.
Books in progress:
matociquala, Range of Ghosts.Kind of unintentionally, I took the weekend off. I woke up Saturday and my hands were curling up with RSI, and decided that they, and my brain, needed to recover a little bit or things were going to get unproductively bad around here. And this seems to have been the right decision. My palms don't viscerally hurt right now, and P. noted last night, after what was a bit of a pushy, partial work day, that I seemed in a much better mood: that I was cooking again, and singing while I did it.
But time is moving, and If I do not finish the book this week I'll just have to do it next week.
So we're back to HOW I SAVED THE WORLD TO PUT OFF CLEANING THE HENHOUSE:
Back through what I had of Chapter 19, and to the end of it. I feel right now that it is flimsy and awful. I'm not sure if that's just the mental fatigue talking, or if it is kind of awful, but either way, that'll get fixed in the next draft and not now. Rocked right through Chapter 20, and we are into Chapter 21. Best thing: I have found the turn. I found the choice that makes everything after. I am trying to treat it carefully, with space, and light, and love.
That is the end of the section.
I am also mildly annoyed because there is a character I have thought about making queer, because it spikes a stereotypical thing. But then it spikes the non-stereotypical thing I've been setting up all book, so. FEH.
The rest of Chapter 21 goes down tomorrow. I probably have four or five more left after that, depending on how fast they get their act together, and how much I don't want to be drafting and just make the plot go.
