Signs of spring

Got a call this morning and had to go out in rather a hurry. Just put on a pair of shoes and walked out the door, no boots, no gloves, no jacket. Granted, I was going to be in my car, but that still marks a radical change from recent conditions. Bare ground appearing again, with temperatures above freezing. Not _much_ above, but above. And the mourning doves are cooing.

Added words to SIGNATURES, Chapter XVII nearing its midpoint. Detective Sergeant Cash, she of the sexy outfits, wants Fat Wizard to use her as bait. I don't know how that's going to play out, which is why I write these stories. I want to learn what happens next.

On writing

I've noticed that a lot of the other writers' blogs have deep intellectual analysis of the theory and practice of writing. While I, as in my previous post, just note that I have writ.

That's because I don't examine the process. I can't offer you folks any insights, can't talk about layering and story modes and themes and archetypes and voice and structure. My approach is to sit down and type, telling myself a story. That's it and all of it.

I'm not claiming this is a superior, Zen approach to writing, waiting for the arrow to loose itself, 100% natural and free of artificial additives. It's just an explanation of why I don't discuss the process. I don't tell you how I do it because I don't know what I'm doing. And if I _could_ tell you, it probably wouldn't work for you.

This comes up on the RASFC usenet group every now and then -- Kipling's famous bit:

There are nine and sixty ways
Of reciting tribal lays,
And every single one of them is right.