It just feels like it should be, having lost a couple of days to admin and a couple of days to being in and out of London for a Project Drill meeting (which I sort of want to describe as "meating" because we broke for dinner at an Argentinian steakhouse that has stretched cowhide on its walls instead of, you know, wallpaper). More phone conferences next week, rescheduling a meeting, doing a first pass on Project V when they send me the notes I need… this cloud of potentiality and unannounced work seems to extend and extend. And, of course, even though it’s all necessary business and nothing happens without admin and meetings and all… none of it ever feels like writing. I’m still old-fashioned about writing. Talking project on the phone, spitballing in email, beating down a fourth act face-to-face… to me, it’s never writing. Writing is what happens when I’m alone in a small room with a keyboard, caffeine and a bottle. There was a writer who once said that his job was to punch out typewriters until they spat out the story he wanted, and I’m kind of in that camp.
Pretty picture of a sea monster by Cassandra Melena.
Templesmith is on the road, touring CHOKER #1, but he has FELL #10 pages in hand. He is enjoying snow.
And now I have caffeine and a bottle, and am going to punch out a laptop until it spits out the story I want.