The Witching Well

The people who live in my head are being very bothersome lately. I have all sorts of plans for them, but they refuse to cooperate. Very frustrating.

Ah, well. At least they’re talking to me.

Most of them.

Yes, that was aimed at you, Lena.

Mood: annoyed

One of the best parts of writing — perhaps THE best part — is suddenly discovering something new about a character that you thought you knew everything about. You’re typing along and it just sort of happens. He does something or says something that you never would have predicted. You look at the page and you say, “Where the hell did that come from?” And you realize that not only is it completely right for him to have done that, it is, in fact, his only real option, considering who he is.

Mood: giddy

I try to make all the characters in my writing into real people, you know, the way you do. Because no one is interested in reading about propped up bits of painted cardboard.

But when you (and by “you” I mean “I”) start delving into the heads of violent antagonists in an attempt at fleshing them out, when you start understanding who they are and why they are the way they are, you start maybe sympathising, just a bit, with their worldview. At least when you’re looking at their world through their eyes.

And you start, maybe, liking them. Just a little. Or more than just a little.

Which can be damned disconcerting, considering the nasty things they do.

Mood: uncomfortable

Elizabeth Bear weighs in on the eternal question of fanfic.

Mood: pleased
Music: Emerson, Lake & Palmer: Lucky Man

Miss Snark, the anonymous New York literary agent who has spent the last two years expounding upon what the publishing industry looks like from her perspective, is retiring.

Yes, it’s true. No more vicious impalements of nitwits on her stiletto heels. No more Killer Yapp. No more bucketfuls of gin. No more borderline George Clooney stalkerage.

It’s a sad day in the writing blogosphere.

Mood: sad

I love weird, random resources. I love learning about obscure stuff that most people don’t care about, like the fact the the Polish girl’s name “Halina” is derived from the Russian/Bulgarian name “Galina” which is a feminine version of “Galenus.” You know, as in Galen, the famous 2nd century physician?

I got that from Behind the Name.

They also have a random name generator, which you can restrict by ethnicity or choose from such categories as “Goth” or “Fairy” or even (if you’re feeling really really silly) “Transformer.”

Mood: geeky
Music: Voltaire: Shalom

I’m supposed to be working on my fantasy novel. But the vampire won’t leave me alone this morning, dammit.

Ardellis: Dude, it’s broad daylight. Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?!

Byron: What, you’ve never heard of insomnia? Besides, you’ve been ignoring me for months. And I’m much more fun that that smuggler over there, admit it.

Ardellis: That’s only because he’s not cooperating with me at the moment.

Byron: Take a break, then. Let him know what he could be missing.

Ardellis: Fine. But after we deal with this, you will shut up and let him figure out how to save his friend without getting himself or his kid killed.

Byron: As long as I get to see Constance Putnam’s face when she realizes what I’ve done, I’ll be happy.

Ardellis: You realize she’ll kill you.

Byron: (grinning) She’ll try.

Mood: creative
Music: Green Day: Ha Ha You're Dead

Outgoing SFWA VP Howard Hendrix calls writers who put their work up on the internet for free “webscabs.” Obviously, the man doesn’t know what a scab really is. But then, I’m guessing he doesn’t have to deal with a whole lot of labor relations problems up there in his scenic mountain home in the Sierra Nevadas.

I think it’s rather telling that I’ve never even heard of Dr. Hendrix.

On the other hand, I have heard of Nick Mamatas, Jim Macdonald, John Scalzi, Martha Wells, and lots of other authors whom he has just tarred with that outrageous and insulting brush.

The internet being what it is, the best and most colorful quote from Dr. Hendrix’s amazingly luddite rant has already become a T-shirt slogan.

I am having one of those days when I am thoroughly convinced that what I am writing is the worst novel ever. The characters are completely failing to be who they’re supposed to be and nothing they do seems the least bit interesting. The words taste like cardboard. Formulating the next sentence is like chewing ground glass. I’d rather do anything else (gee, doesn’t the cat box need cleaning?).

Yes, I am smack in the middle of a first draft. How’d you guess?