Writerly angst

Just reading Peg Kerr's lament about uncertainty in the writing life. And Rolanni's grumbles over going back to rework a "done" chapter that sent the story line off in the wrong direction. And here I am with the female lead of my current work telling lies to me. I _thought_ she was a Vietnamese refugee with a father and brother in "reeducation" camps, that's what she told another character -- turns out she's born and raised in the US and just makes up romantic background stories when people ask too many personal questions. She's still a cast-iron bitch, though.

I thought this stuff was supposed to get easier with practice. I've seen three or four good reviews for WINTER OAK, including one that's _really_ important (Publisher's Weekly), and I'm still angsting over whether that damned book actually works and whether it will sell enough copies to keep Ace forking over cash for more-of-the-same-but-different. That's for words I wrote 2-3 years ago.

And if I put as much time and effort into architecture as I do into writing, we'd sure eat steak for dinner more often. With the exception of a handful of "names" in each genre, writing fiction doesn't pay minimum wage.

Maybe writing should be filed under "curse."

The mills of bureaucracy grind slow....

Well, after going through my editor and her house publicist and a national event coordinator at Borders and then the regional event coordinator, I have a tentative signing scheduled at the Borders in Bangor, Maine. Talk about convoluted....

For anybody within a light-year of Bangor*, the date is 20 November (Saturday) at 2:00 PM.

Beautiful day, blue sky with just enough clouds to set it off, light wind, glowing autumn colors. And we got loam and seed and straw applied to the backfill on the foundation job. Done!

15.3 miles, 1:04:30

*A statistical set probably consisting of two members.

Sometimes ya gotta ask "Why?"

Glancing through the listings for cable channels just to read words in a row (we don't get cable) I noticed a half-hour show on customizing a '63 Ford Falcon.

For those who came in late, the Ford Falcon was Detroit's attempt to build a Yugo. It succeeded.