Five for silver

[desperance]

On my way home this morning, I saw five magpies spruceing up the grass. A parent and four youngsters, I like to think, but what do I know? I saluted, and came on home. And found that the delivery advance for my novel had arrived, only three and a half months after we delivered it. I guess you could call that silver. I'd have preferred gold - if there had been just one more magpie! - but hey. I like silver better, on the whole; less vulgar, I like to think. Style over substance, every time.

Meanwhile I haz a hurty head, and haz done nothing to deserve it. Do not want.

What I have done, I have written 66 pages of the new novel, and I dislike it already, which is a bit grim, given that that's only about 15%. Another 85% of hating. Sigh.

Today I am writing a moment of William Blake, almost literally. We have a tiger, a sleek and shining tiger all under the leaves of life - which is not, of course, Blake but Sayers; but apt. A shining tiger under the leaves is not so far from a tyger burning in the nightly forest. Which is what we have, seemingly. I have no idea why. It may have seemed like a good idea last night. It's starting to feel like a Piper at the Gates of Dawn chapter, a moment of transcendence that doesn't conspicuously lead anywhere, tho' it might enhance the book.

Also it means I need to add something to vol one, but that's okay. Still doable. I may have had some money, but I haven't had any editing yet. Three and a half months, and counting.

I am being sat on and purred at! It won't last; any moment now there will be claws and biting, but right now this is what we like.

Comments

[davidbarnett.livejournal.com]

Well, that's something of a relief, then.