Slow thoughts on a slow day
Dec. 19th, 2006 03:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI'm supposed to be reworking a story that doesn't quite work as it stands. It isn't quite happening; every time I look at the story, I go and do something else instead.
I've started checking the proofs of the US edition of Shelter, which is at least a virtuous thing to do. Actually I started them last night, in the hours before the first of this year's Phantoms gigs: just as a mind-settler, I guess, though it didn't settle my mind much. I was very nervous; cold foggy night, I wasn't sure anyone would turn up, but in fact we had a full house. Then I wasn't sure my co-readers were coming, but they did. Then I wasn't sure we'd have any of the new book to sell, but we did. Then I wasn't sure the stories would go down well, but they did seem to.
Then I went out and got pissed, which was nice. And may be one reason why I'm running slow today.
It's very odd, checking proofs of a book I wrote eight years ago. I'm not one for rereading my own work, I never do that, so I'm coming at this not fresh, exactly, but not familiar either. I recognise more than remember it; Shelter's very different from anything else I've done, and I'm not really sure how I came to write such a book. I kind of like it, though, it does seem to work; I would want to rewrite it, of course, loosen up the voice a little and cut some of the stodge, but I'm being very good and changing nothing except the literals, not a word. I daren't start fiddling with the prose, or I really will rewrite it.
I had a mushroom omelette for lunch today, on toasted walnut bread, with a couple of drops of truffle oil on top. If I ever pass out in your presence, never mind the sal volatile: just revive me with a good sniff of truffle oil. Honestly. That would bring me back from the further reaches of the galaxy.
The colder it gets (and oh, it is cold: yesterday's fog is gone, today's been crystal clear, but chill enough that the midday sun still wasn't melting the frost on the pavement), the more Barry thinks he might be a lap-cat after all.
Also, the next-most-useless thing to say to a cat, after "No, it's not your teatime yet"? "No, please don't play with my shoelaces." Did ever a phrase so idiotic pass a human's lips?
Now I'm going shopping; there is no balsamic vinegar in the house, shock horror; nor is there risotto-rice. I might buy other things. I need an orange, in order to cook the ham this evening; if I cook the ham this evening, then maybe while it simmers I really will tackle this bloody story. Maybe. Or maybe I'll just watch the second half of Hogfather, tho' it strikes me as an absolute exercise in redundancy. There's nothing wrong with it, particularly - just, I don't know what it's for. We've got the book; a TV version seems to me to add nothing whatsoever.
Damn. Now Barry's come to sit on me again. Stuck...
I've started checking the proofs of the US edition of Shelter, which is at least a virtuous thing to do. Actually I started them last night, in the hours before the first of this year's Phantoms gigs: just as a mind-settler, I guess, though it didn't settle my mind much. I was very nervous; cold foggy night, I wasn't sure anyone would turn up, but in fact we had a full house. Then I wasn't sure my co-readers were coming, but they did. Then I wasn't sure we'd have any of the new book to sell, but we did. Then I wasn't sure the stories would go down well, but they did seem to.
Then I went out and got pissed, which was nice. And may be one reason why I'm running slow today.
It's very odd, checking proofs of a book I wrote eight years ago. I'm not one for rereading my own work, I never do that, so I'm coming at this not fresh, exactly, but not familiar either. I recognise more than remember it; Shelter's very different from anything else I've done, and I'm not really sure how I came to write such a book. I kind of like it, though, it does seem to work; I would want to rewrite it, of course, loosen up the voice a little and cut some of the stodge, but I'm being very good and changing nothing except the literals, not a word. I daren't start fiddling with the prose, or I really will rewrite it.
I had a mushroom omelette for lunch today, on toasted walnut bread, with a couple of drops of truffle oil on top. If I ever pass out in your presence, never mind the sal volatile: just revive me with a good sniff of truffle oil. Honestly. That would bring me back from the further reaches of the galaxy.
The colder it gets (and oh, it is cold: yesterday's fog is gone, today's been crystal clear, but chill enough that the midday sun still wasn't melting the frost on the pavement), the more Barry thinks he might be a lap-cat after all.
Also, the next-most-useless thing to say to a cat, after "No, it's not your teatime yet"? "No, please don't play with my shoelaces." Did ever a phrase so idiotic pass a human's lips?
Now I'm going shopping; there is no balsamic vinegar in the house, shock horror; nor is there risotto-rice. I might buy other things. I need an orange, in order to cook the ham this evening; if I cook the ham this evening, then maybe while it simmers I really will tackle this bloody story. Maybe. Or maybe I'll just watch the second half of Hogfather, tho' it strikes me as an absolute exercise in redundancy. There's nothing wrong with it, particularly - just, I don't know what it's for. We've got the book; a TV version seems to me to add nothing whatsoever.
Damn. Now Barry's come to sit on me again. Stuck...