I am the flibbertigibbet. Goo goo g'joob.
Aug. 29th, 2012 10:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceHonestly, I am so lightweight at the moment, the merest puff of a notional wind is enough to send me gadding somewhere else. I was just mentioning on a list yesterday how my first novel was a commission, and the first full-length text I ever finished; perhaps I have not grown up so much as I was hoping to imply. The thing that grinds most at me since I came here to California is that I have finished nothing of any length or weight: a few short stories, in wildly varying genres, but apparently I cannot settle.
As witness, even now: here I am with Mars Imperial (the new contextual, overarching, all-embracing series title) all buzzy in my brain, and so far I have written a short story, started a YA - and as of this morning started a mystery, just because I was lying in bed while m'wife was in the shower and the opening lines occurred to me and what's a man to do?
"My lord?"
"Herver, I would damn your eyes, if you had any." The words might be crisp, but the tone was mild; Lord Anthony Berkeley was not under any pressure. Yet. In point of fact, he’d barely fastened his collar-stud and was only beginning to think about his tie.
(Why yes, this is unashamed Peter Wimsey fanfic. Lordling with time and money on his hands, faithful retainer in the background - both of them survivors of the Venusian wars, both carrying their own scars - and of course they solve crime. On Steampunk!Mars. Possibly with airship pirates, though that might be an indulgence too far.)
As witness, even now: here I am with Mars Imperial (the new contextual, overarching, all-embracing series title) all buzzy in my brain, and so far I have written a short story, started a YA - and as of this morning started a mystery, just because I was lying in bed while m'wife was in the shower and the opening lines occurred to me and what's a man to do?
"My lord?"
"Herver, I would damn your eyes, if you had any." The words might be crisp, but the tone was mild; Lord Anthony Berkeley was not under any pressure. Yet. In point of fact, he’d barely fastened his collar-stud and was only beginning to think about his tie.
(Why yes, this is unashamed Peter Wimsey fanfic. Lordling with time and money on his hands, faithful retainer in the background - both of them survivors of the Venusian wars, both carrying their own scars - and of course they solve crime. On Steampunk!Mars. Possibly with airship pirates, though that might be an indulgence too far.)