I've decided to participate in NaNoWriMo this year, albeit in my own cheatin' way. That is to say, I'm going to attempt to rewrite the second half of my book in a month as opposed to writing 50,000 new words. Still, since it's taken me 2 1/2 years to write four drafts of this thing, and I've never quite managed to get through the second half of the book, this is going to be a difficult task...

Labels: Writing Process

Someone read my blog today and called it sardonic and snobbish. I can't beleive anyone would think this. I'm so fuzzy and lovable!

Lately, I've been running into a lot of people who have been almost published. And when I say this, I mean really almost published--these people have had agents who have gone back and forth with major publishing houses, negotiating deals, only to have them fall through due to a technicality--or more likely, through the attention deficit disorder-driven whimsy of New Yorkers.

It's strange, but conversation always turns to New York--and how fucking flaky and inconsiderate New Yorkers are. It's so consistent it's uncanny. They love you one day; and ignore you the next. What's odd about it is that somehow this reputation gets reflected back to the West Coast--we're the ones who supposedly drop the ball. Anyone else had this experience?

And why am I so bitter this morning?

And did anyone else enjoy seeing both New York teams flop?

Go Cards! Go Tigers! May FOX's ratings sink into the abyss!

I'm back to grinding out a fifth draft of A Very Minor Prophet. I outlined the changes I wanted to make to the last draft, and as I'm going through making these changes, I'm finding that I'm spending hours reading through, deliberating, and ultimately deciding not to make the changes I proposed in my outline. Don't get me wrong, I am making changes here and there, but the changes involve less actual deleting and rewriting than I thought I needed to do. (Although, these small changes are having a severe effect on plot.)

The end result--though good and positive--is a little depressing, seeing as I'll spend days literally deciding not to do any work...

Labels: Writing Process

I got the page proofs back from my publisher last week. It's hair-raising to see a manuscript that has always been in manuscript form suddenly formatted like a book. Everything you've written suddenly seems so permanent.

I did the most thorough line-editing job of the manuscript that I've done in years. I couldn't make myself read it on a macro level--it's too late to do any major changes--but every spelling error I found became frightening. How many more are there? How many did we miss? And all the weird grammar stuff that I never solved. What about that? What will people think of me? OH MY GOD, MY INEPTITUDE WILL NOW BE FULLY EXPOSED.

I spent four hard days on it. Smoking. Behaving horribly towards my wife and child. Needing a vacation afterwards. ACK!

While feeling this I'm simultaneously aware of all the people out there who await this moment and how happy it will make them feel. And don't get me wrong, there was a part of the hair-raising that involved that--WOOHOO, FINALLY HERE I AM. But I guess seeing all the pent-up power that is a book--my book--so close to release, is simply daunting.

Last night I had opportunity to talk with Dingo, who, after taking a brief break to place a ball pump in someone's butt crack, informed me that the clowns can't make their rent. (It jumped from $1200 to $1500--ouch.) It's going to suck to see such a bastion of weirdness disappear from my beloved Alberta Street. Live/work lofts! Hooray! *sighs*

Here's a more intelligent blog on their demise.

Labels: Portlandia