It was the nightingale and not the lark

Ooh, but it was hard to get out of bed this morning. Haaard. Wanted to stay tucked up and snuggled down - and not just 'cos it was warm in there and cold out here. I am tired of putting books in boxes, and I'd really like to stop. Also, I have frightened myself with my archive. Yesterday I thought I could just chuck a lot of it - 30-year-old teen romance scripts? who needs them? out they go! - but then I was actually looking through some last night, and, um. No, apparently I can't just chuck 'em. I made them, and they are mine, and almost a part of me. Apparently. So now I don't know what to do with 'em again.

(Also, I found a letter from one of my major markets, saying they could no longer accept freelance stories as they had their own in-house writers. At the time, that must've been a significant blow to my income - but I don't remember it. At all.)

In case anyone was thinking of knitting mufflers and sending restorative beef tea for poor dear convalescent Mac, don't bother. The patient passed an entirely comfortable night in the middle of my bed, and has scoffed down his crunchy breffuss with no evidence of sore teef at all. (He'd probably quite like beef tea, mind; and mufflers are just more complicated String; but even so. Don't pamper the little brute.*)


*That's my job.

Screw your courage to the stopping-place and we'll not fail

It's never easy, knowing where to stop. It's true of whole books, and of chapters too; but on a daily basis is what I'm thinking. If nothing calls you away, how do you know when you've written enough?

Some people have a regime and stick to it, scheduled hours or daily wordcount. Graham Greene used to write to the bottom of a page and stop mid-sentence; he made a virtue of it, on the grounds that he knew exactly where to start again next morning. Others since have adopted variations. George Sand worked to a clock, and if she finished her chapter within the time, she would take a fresh sheet and begin a new chapter; if she finished her novel within the time, she would take a fresh sheet and begin a new novel. I find that terrifying.

Me, I've always tended to write to a natural break and then stop there. It's contrary to the standard advice, on the grounds - as per Greene - that it's harder to get started again, but I built my habits before there was much advice around and this is what I do and I'm pretty much comfortable with it.

Sometimes, though, it's not so much a natural break as an oh, yeah. I like that. Let's not spoil it by moving on tonight...

As tonight. Here I am, right in the middle of a scene; there is the bottle of wine, open and receptive; I have no other calls on my time and I could just carry on. I probably should. But I did this:

He took off like a rocket from a bottle, like a firework trailing sparks. Like a stupid damn sprite who didn’t know what was out there, who thought he was invulnerable, immortal. Safe.
I could have shrieked. I might have shrieked.
Okay, I shrieked.

- and, y'know. Sometimes you get to interplay your daily syntax with your daily bread, and that'll do.

Stopping now.