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Thud: On Roadstead Farm
May. 23rd, 2013 11:33 pmMay 23, 2013 Progress Notes:
On Roadstead Farm
Words today: 1500.
Words total: 70,000.
Reason for stopping: P. is home with Vietnamese. We're going to make a mango salad to go with it, because I has a recipe.
Darling du Jour: "I need you, Thom," she said again, and her pockets were empty of river stones. Her hand stilled on the last three; they fell, and ran through her fingertips. The stars glowed, gap-toothed, silent, and my breath held, wishing for magic. Wishing for a miracle.
The minutes stretched. The word-spell bowed under their weight and shattered.
(Alternately: "Marthe had lived on Roadstead Farm long enough to know this wasn't a place prayers were answered." I have two today.)
Mean Things: Hiding someone with the junk and broken things, and fully realizing that as a metaphor; magic, when it does not work; raw, unfiltered grief; making me cry; excellent grossness; an impromptu stoning, and not the drug-related kind.
Research Roundup: Mapwork, as figuring out what towns survived the apocalypse and which didn't is a continuing challenge; the colour of unoxygenated blood.
Books in progress:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
matociquala, Range of Ghosts.
Dreams about snakes last night. I do not like snakes.
Today in YE OLDE TALE OF PEOPLE GETTING INTO EACH OTHER'S BUSINESS (ALSO MONSTERS):
A quick fix-it pass on Chapter 12, and most of Chapter 13 knocked down, as well as a bit of general forward through this little arc. We have officially broken the 70,000-word threshold. I don't imagine I'll keep that, though; there's a lot in this file that's stale-dated, debris of directions this book isn't going anymore. Things are going to come out; a bunch of things came out today, in fact. I have no idea what the actual functional wordcount is right now, or what of the bits forward are going to be kept.
I made myself cry. That...felt good, to do that again.
Further: It's interesting how I forget that this is functionally and structurally epic fantasy, as well as Sinclair Lewis/Margaret Laurence Canadian literary fiction. The amount of details, maps, characters, distances to keep in my head just balloons more every day. The notes file has doubled in the last week or so. It gives me ideas for a front-piece map, which would in and of itself be a wonderfully genre-subversive thing to do, given that this is a story where, largely, the protagonist does not leave home.
Dinner. I'll finish this chapter and take on the next tomorrow.
On Roadstead Farm
Words today: 1500.
Words total: 70,000.
Reason for stopping: P. is home with Vietnamese. We're going to make a mango salad to go with it, because I has a recipe.
Darling du Jour: "I need you, Thom," she said again, and her pockets were empty of river stones. Her hand stilled on the last three; they fell, and ran through her fingertips. The stars glowed, gap-toothed, silent, and my breath held, wishing for magic. Wishing for a miracle.
The minutes stretched. The word-spell bowed under their weight and shattered.
(Alternately: "Marthe had lived on Roadstead Farm long enough to know this wasn't a place prayers were answered." I have two today.)
Mean Things: Hiding someone with the junk and broken things, and fully realizing that as a metaphor; magic, when it does not work; raw, unfiltered grief; making me cry; excellent grossness; an impromptu stoning, and not the drug-related kind.
Research Roundup: Mapwork, as figuring out what towns survived the apocalypse and which didn't is a continuing challenge; the colour of unoxygenated blood.
Books in progress:
matociquala, Range of Ghosts.Dreams about snakes last night. I do not like snakes.
Today in YE OLDE TALE OF PEOPLE GETTING INTO EACH OTHER'S BUSINESS (ALSO MONSTERS):
A quick fix-it pass on Chapter 12, and most of Chapter 13 knocked down, as well as a bit of general forward through this little arc. We have officially broken the 70,000-word threshold. I don't imagine I'll keep that, though; there's a lot in this file that's stale-dated, debris of directions this book isn't going anymore. Things are going to come out; a bunch of things came out today, in fact. I have no idea what the actual functional wordcount is right now, or what of the bits forward are going to be kept.
I made myself cry. That...felt good, to do that again.
Further: It's interesting how I forget that this is functionally and structurally epic fantasy, as well as Sinclair Lewis/Margaret Laurence Canadian literary fiction. The amount of details, maps, characters, distances to keep in my head just balloons more every day. The notes file has doubled in the last week or so. It gives me ideas for a front-piece map, which would in and of itself be a wonderfully genre-subversive thing to do, given that this is a story where, largely, the protagonist does not leave home.
Dinner. I'll finish this chapter and take on the next tomorrow.
