I've been rather delinquent since finishing the Not-a-Werewolf Book, which still doesn't have a real title. I've had that horrible impotent feeling: I want to write, and I don't want substitutes, but when I sit down to make words, they just don't feel exciting.
This does not stop me from making words. I don't do writer's block. I do, however, crave like a drug the ultimate exultation of making words that are really good.
Hence my excitement today: finally getting somewhere excellent with "Railway Guns of the Northern Rockies", which has been kicking around my brain for a few months. I am going to love this story.
Other stories in progress:
"Forty-Nine Days in the Intermediate States, with Extracts from the Great Liberation by Hearing": needs attention, but it makes me sad to work on it. I think I'll get back to it next month.
"Rush Lane": Almost done, and shaping up nicely now that I know what the hell it's actually about.
"Seven Postcards from the Garden of Earthly Delights": About to be razed to the ground and rebuilt from scratch with the same floor plan yet a totally different architectural style.
"Sovereign Cure for Pneumonia": Advances on this story have been made, but mainly in my mind, which does not count. I need to polish it properly, and soon.
Oracle of the Dashboard: on Chapter Three, which, now that I think of it, is not bad for a novel I only started writing in March.
And that, my friends, is a bit too long for a works-in-progress list. By contrast, my completed inventory consists of only two saleable stories. Which, yeah, I need to sell.
I met a MRI tech recently who says volunteers are always needed for imaging studies. I would truly love to see what my brain looks like when it's fully at work. I'm convinced there's something different going on, when the work is really sublime--something that would be objectively visible if you could just look with the right eyes.