Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Alcoholics and workaholics do grow from the same seed, after all.

I? Am a creature of extremes. When I'm drafting, it means that I'm drafting: 3000-4000 words a day, every day, until the book is finished. (In this case, until the series is finished. I'm going to need one hell of a pitcher of margaritas when it's done.) That's it. That's what I do. Well, that and walk around muttering to myself and clutching a mug of tea to my chest like it's a baby monkey and I'm it's mother, but I honestly sometimes do that solely because it's raining and I'm trapped inside for the weekend.

Let's meander our way back towards the point. Writing a draft takes a very specific part of my brain, one that is disturbingly non-analytical and more than a little crazy. Editing, covers, the nuts and bolts business end of things, all require a logical part of my brain that just doesn't mesh with the creative side. I kept having to switch back and forth between those aspects of my brain today, and I'm feeling a little schizophrenic as a result.

Good things happened, though! 2200 more words on No Such Place, bringing us to a current total of 24000, or just under one-third of the way through, and substantive work on three different covers, one of which is for a book not yet even written. It requires a pool, though, and I have a policy of not torturing my models if I can at all help it, so it's good to get these things nailed down in advance. In addition, I figured out a compromise for Super ≠ Model that I might even like better than my original dream cover, all with the bonus of not killing this model! Killing them is even worse than torturing them, right?

Now. Off for tea. I solemnly swear that I will neither pet it nor try to name it.

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