Allow Me To Play You The Song of My People

Jasper was excited for all of thirty seconds, and then was very 

much more, "Yeah, no. Why is this fun? We're done here."

The sirens are going nuts here. I hope it's just the snow...



Have just spent the better part of a week agonising over what amounts to three fucking paragraphs in this novel of mine. I wish I was exaggerating. I am now at the stage where I experience an actual shudder of revulsion at the thought of returning to it to edit, but return to it I must, because the damn thing needs the work. Reading over it, with my readers' comments, is like looking at it with new eyes (why on earth did I think that handkerchief scene would work? Am I, like, Jane Austen? Am I trying to write Jane Austen/sci-fi crossover fic...?

...Holy shit....

...That would be awesome...

DIBS.

But, no. The answer is no. For the purposes of this novel at least.

/stupid tangent)

but trying to find something to replace the handkerchief scene is remarkably bloody difficult. And then there's that... thing... I don't know if this is something other writers get or if it's just me, where you read back over something you've written, and there's nothing wrong with it, as such, but it's just... the rhythm is off, or something. It's not working, for reasons that I can't put my finger on. God, I feel like Smilla's Sense Of Snow here, but that's the best I can do.

Anyway, these three paragraphs refused, utterly refused, to hit their groove. I have literally just beaten them into submission, and now I'm fighting the rebellious urge to get shit-facedly, fall-over drunk (which I never do) because I'm just so damn ecstatic that I don't have to fight with these words anymore.

And for some reason, everyone on Scrabble right now seems to think it's okay to disappear without warning. Where did all the conscientious Scrabble players go?

(/second stupid tangent)