cinderberry

The first verdict has come in on "Open". P. reckons it's a story, not a sequence of scenes, though he feels the character's change is expressed too subtly. That's OK, I can work with that.

However, he's worried that the story may not make as much sense to somebody who doesn't know me inside and out, like he does. I see his point. But where, if you please, am I supposed to find a beta-reader who doesn't know me inside and out?

I say, does anybody fancy critting a 3K-word piece of sci-fi?

(Comments screened.)

"Consent" is now called "Open", and has an ending. I think. Anyway, it's off to the first readers.

I'm not sure it's even a short story. It could be just a series of scenes. It makes perfect sense to me, but I don't know if it will to anyone else. It almost certainly won't make any sense to A., who never ever reads sci-fi; she struggled with "Riding Unicorns", which is as straightforward as it gets. But she's an awesome proof-reader.

I so want this story to work; it Means Things to me.

Last night at about 1am I had an "I'm bereft of talent, and this story will never stop sucking" moment. I got over it by 2am, mainly because I realised that, being a first draft, it was doomed to suck. If I hadn't thought it sucked, it would only mean I had delusions of grandeur.

Although it still needs a final scene, I've gone back and line-edited it, gave the evil baddie who isn't some depth, painted the walls, that sort of thing. It sucks less now. Once I've written the ending, I won't be quite so ashamed to send it to my beloved first readers.

It's my first sci-fi, as well, though the "sci" bit could be replaced with magic without too much damage to the plot. Clarke's Third Law strikes again.

I've spent the last couple of weeks writing a sci-fi story under the draft title "Consent".

Two days ago I finally realised what the story is about. Well. Good thing this didn't happen after I finished it.

I'm slightly concerned that after 3 years as a staff writer for a blog with the stardard story length of about 1500 words, I've trained myself to think that 1500 words is how long my short stories should be. Writing short has always been the easiest for me, because I tend towards minimalism.

Some stories need to be longer, though. "Riding Unicorns" is about 3K, and "Consent" wants to be about that as well. The internal editor, meanwhile, is screaming at me to stop being so bloody verbose, because my super-grand clever idea can be wrapped in a neat 1500-word package, and to think otherwise is giving the idea too much credit.

That internal editor wants her nose punched.

In my dreams my father is alive. Every morning is a bitter disappointment. I don't know how I get out of bed, when I start every day being crushed anew.

People say it gets better eventually. It has to, otherwise half of humanity would be barely functional.

Oh, this made me giggle...

The first readers have come back with their comments. All three agree that it's a proper story with a beginning, middle and end, as stories ought to be.

P. helped kick some sentences into submission,* M. gave some advice on the texture of the world, and A. corrected some tenses, but didn't understand what the hell was happening, because (she says) she doesn't read the genre.

Am somewhat disturbed by the latter. The story is very much addressed to readers of fantasy, but I'd hoped it would translate well to readers in general.

Not starting to edit yet. Still too close to it.

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* Pointing out, inter alia, that a 17-year-old wouldn't compare stuff to "watching it as though on tape" because 17-year-olds don't remember tape. D'oh! Feel elderly.

I think I've outgrown my emo winged icon. I'll keep it for appropriate occasions, but this is now my default LJ face.

...is knowing just how much you have to do.

*hides under a blanket from Stuff To Do.*

I think I liked it better when I kept a list in my head, thus mostly forgetting what the hell I was doing from one moments to the next. That was fun. I could watch Battlestar Galactica all day, 'cause I had nothing to do, you know?

So, I've learned to keep a list. Next task: learn to prioritise.

Actually, I'm not enjoying today as much as I could, because this afternoon we have to slide down the hill to see our new Banbury dentist,* the snow is really quite deep.

But anyway, today is a good day because it's not like the previous two days, which I've spent battling with various pieces of technology that just would.not.work. Today, I've embraced my technological failure, and will actually do something fulfilling, like my actual work.

I like my work. It relies on my brain, and not very much else. And my brain mostly doesn't malfunction.

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*Who can't possibly be as bad as my Durham dentist, who did me nothing but damage, later fixed by my lovely Kiev dentist, but anyway, you don't want to know.

Snow update: still snowed in. In fact, more so than yesterday, because some more fluff fell from the sky, burying all my shovelling efforts. It looks so lovely that I feel guilty for worrying about practicalities, like the Rubbish Bag Mountain growing by the bin, and the undelivered post, and the fact that I've got to take the car to be MOTed on Thursday.

A Polish friend came to dinner last night. She and I discovered that we have the same basic walking-when-icy skills, which the natives don't have. I thought those were inborn, like, say, balance, because I can't remember not having them, but apparently they're a thing you develop.

"Riding Unicorns", that is. I shouldn't let myself discount it.

It's a first non-erotic short story I've written since, I think, 2000. It's the first one I've written in English.

I know how much first stories suck, so even though I don't see it yet, I'm sure RU sucks as well. That's fine. I feel like I've given myself permission to grow up: to start telling stories in my beloved third language, in my beloved genre, without completely disfiguring either of them.

I've practised for long enough.

That story is ma bitch.

Now to type it up, and send it to first readers, and reflect on how I feel about it.

"Riding Unicorns" needs another two scenes before I can call it a draft. It's quite possible that I'll finish it tonight. Yes, those are my fingers and they're crossed.

If I cared to be cheery (in an annoying sort of way), I'd proclaim that the snow outside is certainly nothing worse than what I've grown up with, and that there's no need to dig the car out, because my feet are working perfectly well, thank you.

However, the grim reality is that:
1) Although my feet are working, the snow is deeper than my boots are tall. And my clothes aren't as thoroughly winter-proof as what I wore in the depth of winter in Kiev.
2) Also, in Kiev they had snow-eating machines of a kind I've never seen in the UK.
3) Also, I don't think the council remembers our street exists. Haven't seen our postman, or anything resembling gritters, since the stuff started falling.

On the positive side:
1) Unlike back in Durham, there are shops in a walking distance. So, with boots full of snow or not, we can still get nice things like food.
2) The neighbour has a shovel. I could borrow it and tunnel out.

Hang on... I should be doing just that, instead of journalling. See ya'!

I've discovered that Amazon UK is a lot better at sending me US-published books than it used to be when I tried it and gave up last time.

I tested this notion on "Ink and Steel" by Elisabeth Bear, and here it is, in my greedy mitts, all American-paperback-looking.

This doesn't bode well for my wallet, or the bookshelves. Must copy out the dictionary entry for "self-restraint" 150 times. In dip pen. (But-but-but... the SF section in our Waterstones is so bare... but...)

Apparently, a good avoidance technique for writing a difficult short story is, well, to write another short story.

So yes, another one finished. Still not "Riding Unicorns."

P.S. Somebody please forbid me to write any more erotica until I've finished a piece of fantasy. I know erotica is what they pay me for, but at this point going on with it is sheer laziness and cowardice.

If I say this too loudly in anybody's hearing, they might stab me, but I'm really glad to be going back to work. I was doing bits of work here and there anyway (and did a big website redesign on Christmas Day because it was fun), but I need my routine. I also need the world to be on schedule: open when it ought to be, shut when it's dark. I need vast stretches of time to do my work in, not a couple of hours between partying.*

I would prosper, I think, in a Victorian workhouse, if it were warm enough.

*I like parties. People mustn't stop inviting me.

...I get to have an ice-cream. But not until then. Seriously. I said so.