For this title I want to thank Meredith Woerner of io9.com, aka Unicorn Farts, for today’s title. I’ll neither discuss unicorns or farts, but as I read her weekly reviews of True Blood–or as it is sometimes called, “Sookie’s Magical Fairy Vagina”, which would make a hell of a lot better title–there was a line she delivered in her last review (as of this post) that made me laugh. Which is something I seem not to do much of these days.
By this time tomorrow my Camp NaNo story, the first part novel of The Foundation Chronicles, should be finished. Sometime tonight I’ll write the last chapter, get another twelve or fifteen hundred words in the bank, type, “The End” at the bottom of the document, back the novel off to my Seagate drive, and consider it fin.
Another novel finished. Give me that Fluttershy cheer . . . (deep breath) . . . yay. Since the start of this year, good old 2013, that’s two novels written, one novel published, and a novella thrown in for good measure. In terms of new material we’re talking about one hundred and forty-five thousand new words: thrown in the blog and a few articles here and there, and we’re adding another one hundred and twenty thousand words.
That’s a quarter of a million words this year. I’m tired.
A section of my mind is thinking, “Okay, what’s next?” That should be getting one of my short novels in shape for publication, because I need to get something else out there, start cutting into this backlog that’s building up on my computer. But there’s a section that’s screaming at me to take a break, to step away and do nothing for a while.
Yeah, right. I know how that works, because it’s happened before. In the past I’ve said, “Oh, I’ll set this story aside and come back to it in a month.” Next thing I know, it’s five years later, and while I’ve gotten very good at driving the Nordschleife on my computer, I’ve not looked at said story once. It lingers on, like some creature on life support, waiting for me to either rescue it from oblivion, or pull the plug.
Today I was going to blog about something that I felt bothered me, then realized–why? Why bother? Not write, of course, but why rant about something that I don’t care for, but no one else will give much of a shit about. After a bit of reading and thinking, I decided that if I write about the monkey that seems to have crawled onto my back, I’m indulging in a bit of the insane, time wasting crap that has occupied my mind of late.
No, what I should do is finish my story, then think about what comes next. Think about what in the future, and not what’s pissing me off, or what’s bothering me, or what sort of annoyances I can drop like a bad habit instead of hanging on to them and allowing those little things to bug me for no other reason than I want to be bugged.
Saddle up that one trick pony and ride that sucker straight into hell.
And enjoy the scenery along the way; I understand there are some painted roses I should see . . .