Work, as she is seen by plumbers
Jan. 29th, 2007 12:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperance...So I finished playing around with the urban fantasy, and sent that off on Friday; and on Saturday - thinking that I would start work on a short story that I owe - I remembered instead that it needed synopses for its two sequels, so I wrote those (oh, look! they've got plots! stuff happens! development! progress! conclusion...!) and then went out for my second Burns supper of the week. More haggis, more whisky. In a lighthouse.
And went to bed thinking that I'd start the short story next day, yesterday, Sunday.
And, um, didn't. Didn't really do anything, beyond a little light administration; but was just winding up to get started in the evening when friends phoned, just in from a day on Hadrian's Wall, and would I like curry and drinking and company?
Well, yes. So Sunday became a retrospective day off, and today - well, today I am working on the story. And I've just reached that point, about three paragraphs in, where I suddenly understand that - although I have had this story in my head, titled and everything, for literally years - I really know precious little about it and I'm kind of scared of pitching into the thing in this state of utter ignorance, I can't make it work and I can't make it well, all I can do in this condition is spoil it entirely. So ordinarily I would hurl myself away from the computer at this point and go for a walk, go shopping, get the hell away from it for a while until I have a bright idea or recover my nerve or just get desperate enough to come back and poke at it anyway; only I can't do that, because my plumber is fixing my toilet today. He's been and gone and is coming back; so I am rooted to the house, cannot flee the story, and so - well, yes. I am writing the story. Ruining it, most likely, because truly I know nothing; but 'twas ever thus. We blunder about in darkness, and gather stuff together, and whimper "Does it make a shape yet?" to some presumptive higher power who can actually see.
Remind me again, why we do this...?
And went to bed thinking that I'd start the short story next day, yesterday, Sunday.
And, um, didn't. Didn't really do anything, beyond a little light administration; but was just winding up to get started in the evening when friends phoned, just in from a day on Hadrian's Wall, and would I like curry and drinking and company?
Well, yes. So Sunday became a retrospective day off, and today - well, today I am working on the story. And I've just reached that point, about three paragraphs in, where I suddenly understand that - although I have had this story in my head, titled and everything, for literally years - I really know precious little about it and I'm kind of scared of pitching into the thing in this state of utter ignorance, I can't make it work and I can't make it well, all I can do in this condition is spoil it entirely. So ordinarily I would hurl myself away from the computer at this point and go for a walk, go shopping, get the hell away from it for a while until I have a bright idea or recover my nerve or just get desperate enough to come back and poke at it anyway; only I can't do that, because my plumber is fixing my toilet today. He's been and gone and is coming back; so I am rooted to the house, cannot flee the story, and so - well, yes. I am writing the story. Ruining it, most likely, because truly I know nothing; but 'twas ever thus. We blunder about in darkness, and gather stuff together, and whimper "Does it make a shape yet?" to some presumptive higher power who can actually see.
Remind me again, why we do this...?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-29 04:27 pm (UTC)