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Where Gillian verges on steampunk
Aug. 2nd, 2009 06:15 pmI've had a mainly lazy day today, because I did so much last night when I was checking I knew how to have insomnia. I'm still very good at insomnia, you'll be pleased to know, so if you want to enter me in sleeplessness competitions, now's the time. When I finally reach menopause, it will all be over and someone else can carry the baton through those very long nights.
My insomnia produced 2/3 of the missing plot of my steel-and-glass novel. That novel is nearly half-way written (still) and it now has shape and character. It also has a hundred and fifty pages that read like a novel, not a series of notes. Then another twenty-three pages that are a bit less novel-like. Then there is a stack of scrap papers that need to be added. Despite the fact that I've been working on everything else this past two months, it's in a reasonable state.
This book is going to be so very steel-and-glass. I've known that since April. I read it with an outside eye for the first time at about three a.m., and I discovered that, as well as the steel-and-glass, I'm playing with ideas of colonialism and slavery and other dangerous memories. I also toss around the rather nasty notion that fundamental systems governing a universe can be malleable and that society has to adjust if someone is stupid enough to force a change on those systems. Mostly, though, it's the story of a woman. I like writing about individual women - it's like housing friends in my brain. This one is a good strong friend, full of power.
What happened last night was that I had to pick myself up.
Before I became embedded in editing the short stories of other (better) writers and of edits for the novels-to-come-out-terribly-terribly-soon, I'd stupidly brought my heroine's ex into the picture. This left me in the parlous position of having to entirely revisit the plot from the moment of his arrival. It was weighing me down, because there hasn't been time or thinking energy. I'm almost thankful for last night's wakefulness. Most of that revisiting is done and all I have is a little list of questions that still need answering. When I get some writing time (since more editing time is in my near future) I can finish the second half and then move onto other dreams.
I could have worked on everything else last night. I have lists. There's so much to do, and never quite enough energy. I didn't. I wrote fiction, instead. I needed to visit my new cool universe. I needed to feel the granite of Penin's hills under my feet.
Writing keeps me sane. Editing grounds me, teaching makes me happy, and writing keeps me sane. I don't know what part research plays in my life. I suspect it's in there with breathing and eating and wishing I were taller.
None of this was what I was going to blog about today. I was going to say that my totally favourite post on the saga of book imports and Australia is by Kim Wilkins. You can find it here.
My insomnia produced 2/3 of the missing plot of my steel-and-glass novel. That novel is nearly half-way written (still) and it now has shape and character. It also has a hundred and fifty pages that read like a novel, not a series of notes. Then another twenty-three pages that are a bit less novel-like. Then there is a stack of scrap papers that need to be added. Despite the fact that I've been working on everything else this past two months, it's in a reasonable state.
This book is going to be so very steel-and-glass. I've known that since April. I read it with an outside eye for the first time at about three a.m., and I discovered that, as well as the steel-and-glass, I'm playing with ideas of colonialism and slavery and other dangerous memories. I also toss around the rather nasty notion that fundamental systems governing a universe can be malleable and that society has to adjust if someone is stupid enough to force a change on those systems. Mostly, though, it's the story of a woman. I like writing about individual women - it's like housing friends in my brain. This one is a good strong friend, full of power.
What happened last night was that I had to pick myself up.
Before I became embedded in editing the short stories of other (better) writers and of edits for the novels-to-come-out-terribly-terribly-soon, I'd stupidly brought my heroine's ex into the picture. This left me in the parlous position of having to entirely revisit the plot from the moment of his arrival. It was weighing me down, because there hasn't been time or thinking energy. I'm almost thankful for last night's wakefulness. Most of that revisiting is done and all I have is a little list of questions that still need answering. When I get some writing time (since more editing time is in my near future) I can finish the second half and then move onto other dreams.
I could have worked on everything else last night. I have lists. There's so much to do, and never quite enough energy. I didn't. I wrote fiction, instead. I needed to visit my new cool universe. I needed to feel the granite of Penin's hills under my feet.
Writing keeps me sane. Editing grounds me, teaching makes me happy, and writing keeps me sane. I don't know what part research plays in my life. I suspect it's in there with breathing and eating and wishing I were taller.
None of this was what I was going to blog about today. I was going to say that my totally favourite post on the saga of book imports and Australia is by Kim Wilkins. You can find it here.