August 14, 2007 Progress Notes:

The Patron Saint of Nothing

Words today: 900.
Words total: 36,300 MS Word.
Reason for stopping: Out of words for now.
Liquid Refreshment: Stash lemon blossom iced tea.
Munchies: Tuna casserole.
Exercise: None.
Mail: An envelope with a purple question mark on it that was from some dating service. I feel that envelopes with purple question marks on them should be from The Riddler.

Darling du Jour: N/A.
Tyop du Jour: N/A
Words MS Word Doesn't Know: N/A

Mean Things: Case: Girlcooties! Ew!
Qara: Captivity, a boyfriend in shock, and a wet bum.
Research Roundup: N/A
Books in progress: Rudy Rucker, Postsingular; Chaz Brenchley, Bridge of Dreams.

The glamour: I don't even know why I tried this, but apparently the ear piercing holes that I haven't used in five years or so? Actually aren't closed. Tried it with a dull earring and they went through with only a little pop at the back.

I now have some silver ammonite-shell-spiral studs in them, as those are pretty much the only pair of earrings from my preteen years that I'd actually want on my person anymore. Apparently one is supposed to like hearts in one's ears at that age. And dangly hearts. And big silver dolphins. And hearts.

Must sort out what kind of earrings don't look like ass with my bone structure and acquire them.

So yes, back to work on this since we decided to have a working afternoon in chat. I think I've figured out what was actually going wrong here, which isn't ohmigod 35k in and there's no plot just setting aaaaah let's go hide now, but that I was setting up too much plot. I can't have four different major endpoint goals in four different directions. Maybe two. Focus, people! *whipcrack*

I wonder if this is another place where novels built on Cool Shit(tm) fall down: in the beginning in terms of engaging the reader with character and not just place, and in the middle with...failing to focus all that free-floating Cool Shit into something that makes a coherent and causal narrative.
I just began a sentence:

"Or let the witcher have him, in a musty little room--"

--and my brain filled in--

"In Detroi-it they prayed, in the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral."

Bad brain! Bad! No biscuit!

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