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Even though LiveJournal is experiencing the latest round of massive DDOS attacks from Russian hackers, I have at least limited access to my LJ, so I'm going to attempt an entry. Because that's what I do every day before I start working. Even if no one will be able to read it. I'm thinking about to moving to Typepad. I'd move to Dreamwidth, instead, but it's owners are bona-fide scumbags.
I honestly thought this would be the entry wherein I said something like, "Oh, I'm sorry the entries have been so angry and grim the last few days. I'm better now. Let's get back on track."
No.
That's not happening today. The shit-storm continues.
Yesterday, though, I did write 1,465 words, and so began Chapter 5 of Blood Oranges. It was the first time I'd been able to bring myself to work on the book since June 19th.
There is a reason for this, a reason why I wrote the entire first half of a novel in one month (something I'd never even thought possible for me), and then locked up for a month and was unable to go back to it. There is an explanation. But like many explanations, it's divulged at a risk. At the risk of pissing off people who are better left unpissed off.
Which leaves me wondering, why does no one in this great clusterfuck of a publishing industry care if the author gets pissed? It leaves me wondering that, though the answer is obvious. The author, in the eyes of Industry, of Business, is a disposable cog. One makes too much noise, causes too much trouble, there are at least a thousand waiting to take her job. Gods, I'm sounding like a Marxist. But it's the fucking truth. You want to be a professional author? One whose sole source of income is her writing? Fine, just don't think it's ever going to "make you your own boss." I'm as answerable to The Boss as any poor cubicle schmuck. Yes, I can walk away anytime I choose. But so can anyone, no matter their line of work. It only requires the resolve to live in a cardboard box on a street corner.
I'm with Parker, in The Way of the Gun. I think a plan is just a list of things that don't happen. Back in May, I had something I'd never had during my publishing career. I had a plan. A good plan. I allowed it to be reshuffled. And now...
No, it's not the end of the world. In fact, it's sort of a paper cut. But you know what happens if you get a few hundred paper cuts. See Forms of Torture in China, Pre-1905.
Maybe you'll be able to read this. Maybe you won't. Frank the Goat only knows.
Cut,
Aunt Beast
I honestly thought this would be the entry wherein I said something like, "Oh, I'm sorry the entries have been so angry and grim the last few days. I'm better now. Let's get back on track."
No.
That's not happening today. The shit-storm continues.
Yesterday, though, I did write 1,465 words, and so began Chapter 5 of Blood Oranges. It was the first time I'd been able to bring myself to work on the book since June 19th.
There is a reason for this, a reason why I wrote the entire first half of a novel in one month (something I'd never even thought possible for me), and then locked up for a month and was unable to go back to it. There is an explanation. But like many explanations, it's divulged at a risk. At the risk of pissing off people who are better left unpissed off.
Which leaves me wondering, why does no one in this great clusterfuck of a publishing industry care if the author gets pissed? It leaves me wondering that, though the answer is obvious. The author, in the eyes of Industry, of Business, is a disposable cog. One makes too much noise, causes too much trouble, there are at least a thousand waiting to take her job. Gods, I'm sounding like a Marxist. But it's the fucking truth. You want to be a professional author? One whose sole source of income is her writing? Fine, just don't think it's ever going to "make you your own boss." I'm as answerable to The Boss as any poor cubicle schmuck. Yes, I can walk away anytime I choose. But so can anyone, no matter their line of work. It only requires the resolve to live in a cardboard box on a street corner.
I'm with Parker, in The Way of the Gun. I think a plan is just a list of things that don't happen. Back in May, I had something I'd never had during my publishing career. I had a plan. A good plan. I allowed it to be reshuffled. And now...
No, it's not the end of the world. In fact, it's sort of a paper cut. But you know what happens if you get a few hundred paper cuts. See Forms of Torture in China, Pre-1905.
Maybe you'll be able to read this. Maybe you won't. Frank the Goat only knows.
Cut,
Aunt Beast
