Eagles Over the Kennebec

First, thanks to everyone who sent along header files -- we're all set now, and very much appreciate the assist.

Since my last electric letter, I have more-or-less recovered from the Fluish Thingy. Alas, it hit Steve somewhat harder, and also took my counterpart in the English Department for a ride. Steve is now starting to feel human, and I'm hoping Jo is, too. Discretion dictated that we cancel out of SnowCon, which was the right thing to do (friends don't go to cons sick).

The weatherbeans are calling a snowstorm for tomorrow, so we will be joining the Traditional Pre-Storm Trip to the Grocery Store today, then I plan to settle back on the sofa and read Scout's Progress. With luck and a tailwind, I'll be able to start writing Mouse and Dragon Monday evening. Yep, I do read slow.

This may be a good place for a word about process. The story-shaping time is strangely fragile; it's a time when ideas perk and rise and spin out in silly directions; when connections are made. It frequently includes some "I didn't know that!" moments as information and ideas make new patterns. Reading Local Custom, I was amazed at the number of plot hooks that were already set and baited for this new story. Truly, the writing brain is a marvelous instrument.

I know a bunch of people are excited about this book (I am, too), and I know that readers have Ideas about how they want stories to go and what situations they want to see favorite characters deal with. This is not the time to write to the author and tell them your ideas. This seems harsh, I know, but if you've learned nothing else from reading this journal, you ought certainly to have learned that Writers are Terrible People. I certainly can't stop anyone from speculating inside the comfort of their own skull. However, I will immediately delete any letter, or post in this journal, that seems to be giving story direction, no matter how well-meant.

There are reasons for this -- and not just craft reasons. Writers and fans have gotten into nasty brangles in other parts of the forest, because a writer "stole" a fan's idea and now the fan wanted compensation. Life is too short; and I don't want to go there. Ever. Also, yanno, there are those hooks, all set and ready to be used.

And so to breakfast, and the adventure that will be the grocery store.

So I went to work yesterday and it was a Zoo the like of which I have rarely seen at my cousin's place, and hope never to see again. I came home full of Vibrating Adrenaline and a headache on the half-shell, reference Zoo, above. Took a nap, and hit the revisions on Carousel Tides, which were going really well, so I kept at them for ...a while. But I did knock off in plenty of time to get to bed at a reasonable hour, because I Are A Grown-Up, and I had an early start-date at work today.

Except the headache took the opportunity of unsupervised time to increase its munitions and fortify its position, so that by the time I got up, I was One Sick Puppy. I thought I was gonna tough it out, anyway, the cousin paying well and money in short supply, but it just wasn't gonna happen. Called in sick, went back to bed and promptly fell into a coma, ably assisted by Mozart and Scrabble.

Woke up four hours later, queasy and achy, managed not to blow up the kitchen or catch a cat on fire while warming up chicken and rice soup -- and went back to bed, promptly falling into a coma, ably assisted by the microwaveable gray goose, Mozart and Scrabble.

I'm up again and can actually look at a computer screen without disturbing the midgets with their titanium tap shoes, so I'm going to up the ante and see if I can actually do the dishes.

Call me wild and crazy.

Sigh.