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cbrachyrhynchos: (Default)
I was looking back over my old Sims 2 journals and feeling kind of bummed. Some of them were not that bad and I had the motivation to create. On the other hand, playing games with a self-imposed publication schedule became a significant drag.

Arguments for: I don't do enough "sit down and write" time. The publication industry is changing in various ways and I know some people who do better with self-publishing than trying to rise out of the slush pile, and it's not like I have a traditional writing career to ruin at this point.  A self-imposed deadline of one chapter a week or two would probably be less stressful than trying to binge with nano. Cherrie Priest managed it, and of course Dickens is famous for originally working in serial form.

Arguments against: I generally have bad follow-through. Why do I think that anyone would want to read it? And shouldn't I be chasing down and strangling my dream of jumping out of the slush pile to become a modestly successful writer?

The story in question would likely be my Nano 2010 Truthteller rather than Sister Raven, which is a bit too tender and dear to put out in that way. I've been working on Sister Raven in some form for over 15 years.
cbrachyrhynchos: (Default)
Failing to complete one story? Start another one based on a dream!

Ended up watching several episodes of Pawn Stars between naps. Most cognitively disturbing thing after the cut.

Read more... )
cbrachyrhynchos: (Default)
Not quite a drabble...

“What do you mean, you lost them?” Miranda glared at Mess Sergeant Gardner. “Do you know how much engineered Thellassian spider silk costs?”

“Yes, it’s a funny thing. I treated your load just like every other, as per your instructions ma’am. No different from any other special items I do for the crew. You know, my grandfather had a theory about laundry machines and teleportation, perhaps you should look into it.”

“Sargent, if I find reason to suspect that you’re selling my ... clothes... to a crew member with a fetish, I’ll have you both thrown off the ship at the first port. Dismissed Sergent.”

--

“Hey Sarge, what’s your secret? The coffee tastes less like ass this week.”

“I use old socks as a coffee filter, old family recipe.”

“No really, did Shepard pick up some better beans on Omega?”

“Yeah, yeah, you guys just don’t know what I’ll do to give you a good cuppa joe before saving the galaxy. Laugh it up girls.” Gardner underlined the words “Thellassian spider silk” in his copy of Galactic Gourmet and read on to the next section.
cbrachyrhynchos: (Default)
A just published memo from David Mamet explains why I like to snark at crime drama:

HERE ARE THE DANGER SIGNALS. ANY TIME TWO CHARACTERS ARE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

ANY TIME ANY CHARACTER IS SAYING TO ANOTHER “AS YOU KNOW”, THAT IS, TELLING ANOTHER CHARACTER WHAT YOU, THE WRITER, NEED THE AUDIENCE TO KNOW, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

DO NOT WRITE A CROCK OF SHIT. WRITE A RIPPING THREE, FOUR, SEVEN MINUTE SCENE WHICH MOVES THE STORY ALONG, AND YOU CAN, VERY SOON, BUY A HOUSE IN BEL AIR AND HIRE SOMEONE TO LIVE THERE FOR YOU.
cbrachyrhynchos: (Default)

Dinnie, an overweight enemy of humanity, was the worst violinist in New York, but was practicing gamely when two cute littel fairies stumbled through his fourth-floor window and vomited on the carpet.

“Sorry,” said one.

“Don’t worry,” said the other. “Fairy vomit is no doubt sweet-smelling to humans.”

Twee is the word that came frequently to mind when I read this book. It sits at weird intersection that I don’t quite know how to really describe. The book is loaded with characters that are flawed, but presented in a charming way. Although the fact that everyone is living in desperate circumstances is a bitter-sweet undertone. The action centers around comic misunderstandings in a manic search for an increasing number of MacGuffins. The narrative does seem to have some issues with figuring out how the timing of all the madcap events link up together, and it’s not really resolved until the very end.

I'm a bit frustrated as a writer right now. I know bootstraps and all and I should just make the time to do it. But I'm starting to think that perhaps I should focus a bit more on smaller pieces rather than novels. The bad news is, most of my smaller pieces turn out to be, well, dirty and often fanfic as well, so I need to get over my quams about being one of those writers.

cbrachyrhynchos: (Default)
A response to this exercise.

List the contents of your character's purse, pockets, grocery cart, brief case or car. Then write a short scene in which someone other than your character is looking for something in the purse, car or whatever.

A wood and leather case filled with scalpels and curved needles.

A carefully-padded bottle of ether.

A formal skirt and blouse, both looking as if they’ve been rarely worn.

A well-tended but threadbare set of Raven funerial vestments.

A blood-stained apron.

Four books: A journal with the front cover dated six years previously is filled with mostly-illegible and sporadic notes made with a different ink on every page. A hand-made pouch of cloth holds together a battered copy of Songs of the Raven. Almost as equally battered, is a copy of Perognoy’s Dove and Hawk, with many of the bawdier and more blasphemous passages bookmarked. The first chapter of On the Nature of Gods and those Touched by Them is heavily annotated with a bookmark midway into chapter two.

A small leather bag containing a carefully-tied lock of hair, and a tarnished wedding bracelet.

A porfolio of sloppy and badly-written attempts at love letters and poetry.

A bag of dried apples and hard cheese.

A carefully-written and sealed letter, addressed only to Sam.

Sister Ninarel stretched and quickly cataloged the remaining miscellanea of Dina's belongings. The party had been reluctant to conduct that sorrowful business, and the saddlebags of their two casualties were bundled on the remaining pack mules unopened for the first days of the trip back. Normally the task would be initiated and mediated by a Raven, that order which pragmatically plowed forward in settling the last affairs of the dead. But Dina was both saint and avatar for Mother Raven, and everyone else procrastinated in this task. Sam tried to hide her grief in ways that were obvious to the rest. The remaining priests deferred to Ninarel as the oldest, the only surviving saint, and perhaps because her long-term relationship with a Raven gave her unique insight.

She sorted the belongings into piles. The tools of Dina's trade, the vestments and the medical tools would obviously go back to Dina's religious order. The miscellaneous clothing and gear will be donated at the first chantry.

Ninarel swallowed her qualms and leafed through the letters and poetry. Damn it girl, she thought. You didn't have to try sounding like a courtier. If you had just told her... She set them aside to decide later when to give the bundle Sam.

She leafed through the bookmarks of the Perognoy. Ninarel was intimately familiar with both the work, its content, and the author. Young Pero freely admitted he intended it to be read with one hand. Sister Ninarel thanked her own goddess that she had indirectly given Dina some happiness, and wondered at yet another strange coincidence that connected the two of them.

Her fingers traced over the binding of Nature of Gods, and found herself pocketing it out of curiosity as to whether Dina's notes would reveal anything about her theological plight.

The lock of hair and bracelet posed another conundrum. Should it be returned to the family of the husband whose death thrust Dina into the order of Ravens? Ninarel knew that Dina's own family was estranged from her due to the marriage. Had the group known about it, it could have been buried with Dina's ashes. In the end, she stacked it with the collected notes andsealed letter. Sam was owed the respect of a widow in this matter after all...

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