Oh, the week begins anew at The Undisclosed Location. This will be, for me, a trying week, and I need to get through it. I need to set my course and move forward, because there is much that will happen next week. No, truly: there will be.
But I have to make it through this week. I have a long way to run.
I opened up Part Twelve of Diners at the Memory’s End, and right away I was off on the melancholy. Albert is sad, very sad. He wasn’t a good boy, and he’s suffering for it. He has no idea what Cytheria is up to–which is probably a good thing–and she’s not returning his calls. As he says, it feels as if the Cytheria of old is back, and that’s not a good thing, because she’s a cold girl. Very cold indeed. You can’t imagine how cold.
Part Twelve will be a lot shorting that Part Eleven, or so I believe. Part Eleven ran just over four thousand words, and took the better part of a week to write. I didn’t expect that, but there were a lot of things I didn’t expect during this last week. But that’s sort of behind me now; time to move on.
(I just ran Part Eleven through The Gender Genie, and it told me it was written, most defiantly, by a woman. And I Write Like told me that the style was like that of Anne Rice. Well, now . . . I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, or not. Probably better than the female H. P. Lovecraft I get a lot of times.)
Part Twelve is going to clear a lot of air, but Part Thirteen . . . that’s going to be something hard to write. I might even need to lay out some notes for it before I do it, because there’ll be a bit of future history involved there. Or maybe the words will come to me rather easily. It’s always hard to say, because you can only guess as to how well something is going to go before you go there. That’s how Part Eleven was: I thought it’d go quickly. It didn’t. Hell, this whole story is taking forever. I need to do some serious writer in the next couple of weeks, because I feel like I’m dragging.
I don’t like dragging. I need to feel like I’m doing something.
That’s probably the problem I’ve had since the start of May. I’ve felt something dragging upon me, and it’s getting old. I’m ready to move on; I’m ready to get shit over and done. It’s not just this story, which I went into with a great deal of enthusiasm, but now feel like I let myself down in some way.
That’s how life has felt like as well: like I’ve let myself down. Like I’ve not lived up to what I can do.
I’m not trying to catch a bandersnatch; I’m running from the damn thing. Which is even more ridiculous, because they will always catch you.
You can never run away from something that was always meant to outrun you.
Best let it come and fight it, ’cause it’s the only way you can survive.