Sometimes it Pours
Woke up at 4am because of the cat. Stayed awake because I’d been having an awesome dream about being a stowaway on an alien ship that then got attacked by pirates and knew it could be a super cool short story. Normally when I have a story idea it has to brew for a week or a month or a year. Apparently all this one wanted was about 4 hours.
Well, it’s a story anyway. After 7.5 hours of nearly continuous writing, the monstrosity that is “Crawlies” is now complete. After a “oh god how messy is this” editing pass it stands at 7715 words. Bleh. I was aiming for 4000. Is this what plot does? Cause baby, this story has plot. Hell, it’s got everyting. Provided that everything means aliens, pirates, an 11 year old protagonist, bombs, and exploding head jokes. My research firefox window currently has open windows from wikipedia for oxygen toxicity, acute respiratory distress syndrome, and squid. Lord save me, there’s even slang. It was like this character waltzed into my head and wouldn’t shut the hell up. Of course, she’s 11, she doesn’t shut the hell out anyway. I wish writing was always this easy. Even if it doesn’t let me do anything else.
Now that my work day is gone, I’m going to go eat something (sorta forgot to do that in the ‘writer will finish or she gets the hose again’ fog I’ve been in most of today).
In the other kinda of ego-boosting news (no, not the yet again “close but try again” rejection I got today), one of my poetry chapbooks sold at the bookstore COLD. As in a random stranger who is no relation to me chose my little self-published being sold on commission chapbook all by himself with no arm twisting from my mother and paid COLD DELICIOUS CASH for it. I feel pretty good about that. Poetry is hard to sell, and this means that mine was good enough to attract a random human’s interest. Or you know, so bad he couldn’t resist buying it to chortle at the next wine and schadenfreude party. I’m going to believe the former. For my peanut-sized ego’s sake.
Ok, now, to post this monstrous new baby of mine somewhere for critique. Oh why oh why is it so long? Curse you baby.
But I love you. In fact, today (and probably only today), I love writing. Thank you writing gods. Now, can I please have a nice compelling dream about how to finish this novel? K thanx.
Oh yeah, and if you think I was kidding about my mother arm twisting people, you should talk to Ken Scholes*. I’m surprised he made it out of there without a chapbook. Lucky bastard. You know you’ve hit a sad sad hole in your social life when your mother has to do your networking for you. Thanks mom. 28 is just like 8, somedays. At least she didn’t try to arrange a play date or anything.
(*Ken Scholes is, in fact, as far as my limited mother-twisted arm contact with him has gone, a supremely tolerant and nice guy. Buy his books).