stop. start. stutter.

Three things that are sucking this week:

1). Asimov's passed on "Shuffle Up And Deal" (which, okay, I was expecting them to, honestly -- it's of a type that they buy very rarely, although not never, and the main markets for that one are closed to new subs for right now). Still. MY SHATTERED DREEMZ, LET ME SHOW YOU THEM. (Okay, more like, my next submission, let me show you it. STILL.)

2). I am at That Part Of The Book on Strange Waters. The part where you know most of what happens from now to the end, where you really like the characters and the setup, and think that you should have your fingers broken lest you try to put words together, period.

Neil Gaiman said it best in this week's NaNoWriMo pep talk: "...you don't know why you started your novel, you no longer remember why you imagined that anyone would want to read it, and you're pretty sure that even if you finish it it won't have been worth the time or energy and every time you stop long enough to compare it to the thing that you had in your head when you began---a glittering, brilliant, wonderful novel, in which every word spits fire and burns, a book as good or better than the best book you ever read---it falls so painfully short that you're pretty sure that it would be a mercy simply to delete the whole thing."

Yeah. That Part Of The Book.

3). I have something almost, but not quite, entirely unlike the flu. Major symptoms: complete inability to be out of bed for more than about twenty minutes without dizziness, full-body ache (although with my various disabilities, it's often tough to tell), a body thermostat turned down about three degrees from where I usually run (everyone around me always knows when I'm sick; I suddenly bust out the fuzzy socks, put on something other than a tank top, and turn the heat up over 65 degrees) and, perhaps the most worrisome, a sudden need to re-read the entirety of Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series.

(I jest. They make grand comfort reading. And I am vastly entertained by imagining Kaden and Dan -- the main characters of Beside Strange Waters -- as Heralds.)

I did it! Fifty thousand words, which is turning out to be nearly exactly 'halfway' in the book -- I just finished the climax of the story, so halfway feels about right.

Actual word count is 50,614. Go me. \o/

Meanwhile, maestro, a little ranting music: The Girl and I went out yesterday for some home-goods shopping, dinner, and an evening in the bookstore. It was a bad pain day -- not helped along by the spectacular pratfall I took in the Target when a corner of the carpet was peeling up and I tripped on it despite the cane and managed to whack my spine out of alignment -- and I was pretty cranky, but it was nice to be out of the house. We picked one of those standard generic American chain restaurants for food, and ordered our appetizer well in advance of putting in the order for the actual food.

Out comes the appetizer. Three minutes later -- okay, I'm exaggerating; it might have been five -- the salad that came with my dinner came out. Okay, salad + appetizer, I can see where they're going with that. Not five minutes after that, the entrees hit the table. We were barely half done with the appetizer; my salad was nearly untouched.

And okay. I know that generic American chain restaurants aren't exactly the epitome of fine dining, but really -- has the art of pacing a meal been lost completely? There is nothing I hate more than being rushed through a meal, and having your entree getting cold in front of you and feeling pressured to finish the appetizer so your entree doesn't go all gross and cold is not the way to have a pleasant dinner.

We bitched at the waitress, who just sort of sneered at us and then dissappeared for the rest of the meal without even bothering to come back and check if we needed anything. It would have just been a minor annoyance, except this is the third time in the last three times we've been out to dinner that it's happened. I mean, come on, people. A little bit of timing here. The restaurant I grew up in may have been a tiny little diner/luncheonette, but even we knew about the importance of pacing a meal. I don't think it's too much to ask that I get a chance to finish my appetizer before my dinner's being shoved into whatever corner of the table has room.

Well, after the traditional November Life Explosion -- no, don't ask, really, it's better off for all of us if we just let it go -- I'm back in the saddle and back on track; the word count currently stands at 40,678, and the little darlings have managed to utterly surprise me at least three times today alone.

At least I'm having fun. :)

I support the Writers Guild of America in their efforts to receive equitable compensation for digital distribution. It's not the only issue they are striking over; you can read the guild's response to the AMPTP's proposals, which contains a high-level overview of the issues involved.

The proposal put forth by the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers is predicated on a blatant lie: that internet distribution of television and movies is promotional only, not for-profit. This is patently and demonstrably false. Television studios are embracing internet distribution tentatively, but they're making money on it. The people who wrote that content deserve a percentage of that revenue.

In a way, the WGA is the bellwether of the television and movie industry; both their contract-schedule and their position in the production timeline mean that they're the first industry union to go to talks about a specific issue. This year is going to be the year of internet (and other non-traditional distribution channels, such as cell phones, PDAs, iPods, etc) residuals, and it's going to get nasty. Expect other contract negotiations, including the Screen Actors Guild and the Directors Guild of America, to also hinge around this issue.

It's also an issue we should all be paying attention to. The WGA doesn't cover the print industry, fiction or nonfiction, but I think we've all seen -- over this past year and before -- the ripples of questions about internet rights. What gets decided here is going to have an impact on how the publishing industry handles things, and as someone heavily invested in internet distribution, DRM, alternate-copyright, and sustainable New Media channels of distribution, I'm watching this one closely. I'm almost always automatically on the side of the people out on the picket lines, because I know what the labor movement has gotten us (whether blue-collar or white-collar), and I know what we owe them. But this one's personally-affective in a way so many other labor conflicts aren't.

I'm also heartened to see all the support being shown for the WGA, and I hope it continues. The longer a strike drags on, the more tempted people are to get nasty to the strikers. If I lived in LA or New York, I'd bring donuts and coffee; as it stands, all I can do is sit here and cheer the WGA on. Solidarity forever.

(and you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile, and you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, and you may ask yourself -- well, how did I get here?)

I have moments when I completely identify with this song -- when I stop and look around myself and go wait a second, how the heck --

The latest example: this afternoon, after merrily scrubbing the bathroom (we have not quite yet reached cat-vaccuuming territory, but we're getting close), I found myself discussing life with a very dear friend of mine. Now, about two hours later, we are going to Alaska.

And when I say "going to Alaska", I mean, we are doing it the old-fashioned way. We are roadtripping it. Flying to Seattle (we are not stupid), renting a car, and trekking on up. And okay, we're waiting until summer to do it -- see above regarding 'not stupid' -- which is a bit more delayed-gratification than I generally like to get with travel, but it means I get to spend Midsummer above the Arctic Circle. And dude. How cool is that? Maybe we'll find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea.

(I apologize to those of you whom I have now earwormed. With either song.)

....yes, children, I know you all have stories to tell in there, but interrupting me to make me write a couple thousand words of the novel I'm not even thinking about at all, dammit is not the way to make me happy during NaNoWriMo.

I'm just sayin'.

And on day five, the Writer rested. (And played poker. And made her best showing in a 2700-person freeroll so far: 201st place. I suck at poker, but I enjoy it anyway.)

Word count still at 31,936. Writer headed to bed now. :)

Today basically consisted of:

Me: Hey, I'm getting to the point where I need a B-plot.
Evil Bitch Coauthor (aka my subconscious), immediately: Here you go!
Me: ....
EBC: What?
Me: That touches the A-plot in no fewer than three separate places, is thematically and character appropriate, and makes a main character of the one character I put on screen for one walkon sentence as local color.
EBC: *buffs nails on shirt* You're welcome. You've still got to write the fucker, though.

Word count: 31,928. Wrists ache. Send massage therapist. Or possibly some Jack Daniels.

...come to think of it, we've got some JD in the fridge. Catch you guys tomorrow. :)

And now, as I am off to bed -- dammit, this staying-up thing really isn't working; I'd kind of like to have my twenty-year-old body back now, thank you very much -- and as I am certain that I'm going to sleep past midnight at least, thus ending the official "November third" (insert tongue-in-cheek rant about how this whole system is oppressive of the chronologically non-normative), and sparing you all the indignity of another one of those silly (and yet somehow endearing) images going by:

Day three. 23,430 words; 29% of the way to my goal of 80,000.

Or done-with-the-book, whatever that takes. Historically, I always 'win' NaNoWriMo in the first third of the month, easy, and then Personal Disaster strikes and distracts me from actually finishing the draft, and by the time I get back to it, the Inner Editor (that treacherous bitch) has convinced me it's utter shit and not worth paying any more effort into. But this year I'm determined to break the curse. Hear that, Editor Bitch? I'm gonna go in there and gag you if I have to.

On the recommendation of a few friends who are also suffering NaNo this month, I'm currently trying out Scrivener, a text editor with a few very useful extras. The extras are hellaciously useful (especially the corkboard; when one is trying to juggle a total of nine races, all of whom one is attempting to make something Other Than Stereotypical TV Humans-In-Funny-Makeup Monoculture Aliens, having a place to keep notes: priceless).

I am yet undecided as to whether I'm going to keep it, though. Not because it's not useful; it is. No, I'm still undecided about it because I can't figure out if I can work with the aesthetics of the text processing window. The background is too shiny, and not matte enough.

(Hey, I never claimed I wasn't shallow, okay?)

Well, despite an unplanned sixteen-hour nap -- this week has been a fairly bad pain week, since I've dislocated a few of my neck vertebrae, and sleeping is painful because it manages to undo all of the work I've done to get them back in, so I declared that I just wouldn't sleep at all until it's totally healed; it is perfectly logical dammit, and unfortunately has proven to be perfectly impossible, as I am no longer young and carefree and capable of spending 72 hours awake without falling flat on my face, alas -- I have still managed to make some progress on the manuscript:

I'm not done writing for the 'day', yet, but I did say you could all throw rotten fruit at me if I didn't stick to this, so I figured I'd post an update, lest the chucking begin.

And thanks to some very smart people -- you know who you are! -- yesterday, I have unearthed some really cool things about this world and this book. Which will, no doubt, require me to take two days off in the middle of the book and research neurology, cognitive science, and ASL grammar and structure. Yeah, it was supposed to be a lighthearted sports space opera. SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LET THEM HAVE THE KEYBOARD.

Well, today was the first day of NaNoWriMo, which I have participated in since 2001. I always get to the fifty thousand words, usually in the first week or so, and then decide I hate the book and never look at it again. I have determined that this year is going to be the year I break the curse.

So I threw out what I had already of Beside Strange Waters -- yes, this is the third attempt, but I really think I've got it now, no, really -- and started over. And I will use public shame to motivate me. For a target of 80,000 words, that's 2667 words a day. If I fall behind, you all have my permission to throw rotten fruit at me until I catch up again.

Since zokutou's word count meter is down, have an alternate version:

(It's not too late to sign up yourself. Come on, you know you want to. Misery loves company, after all.)