Howard Hughes hardly eyes a bat.

[greygirlbeast]

There's not much good to be said for yesterday, unwriting wise. I did add about 300 words at some point, because three thumbs are apparently better than two. I am fairly certain that the Mordorian Death March at last and finally ends tomorrow. There will be aftershocks, to be sure, and I will deal with them as they arise, but I will be free to get some rest and then move on to the work that has been languishing — The Dinosaurs of Mars, the "Onion" screenplay, Joey Lafaye, etc. So, today as I snip and cut and disfigure I will at least be doing so full in the knowledge that the surgery is almost done.

Though it seems to be taking me forever to read, I'm very much enjoying the Jay Parini Steinbeck biography. I was especially pleased with this bit I read last night — What is the common touch that it is supposed to be so goddamned desirable? The common touch is usually an inept, stupid, clumsy, unintelligent touch. It is only the uncommon touch that amounts to a damn. (John Steinbeck, 1949) Over the years (and sometimes in this journal) I have lamented that I do not have the common touch and never shall; these three sentences make me feel a little better about it. Also, we finished Lemony Snicket's The Austere Academy, which I think is my second favourite of his so far, after The Reptile Room.

I am enormously flattered that docbrite has seen fit to name her new baby corn snake, in part, after Deacon Silvey. As for her long entry of this morning, I don't think she would want me commenting upon it. I will say only that there's a good reason I've spent many years trying to convince would-be fiction writers that there are hundreds of much easier ways to be miserable, that the life of a writer is neither romantic nor glamorous, and that garbage men and office temps have it better than most professional novelists. The publishing houses of NYC have always been a harsh mistress, but since the 1970s or so, they have become another sort of beast altogether, one that chews first, spits wherever it pleases, and asks questions latter. But this is turning into a commentary, which I already said it wouldn't do.

Oh, and Superior Court Judge Ronnie Batchelor has ruled that the Harry Potter books will remain in Gwinnett County school libraries. Honestly, someone needs to adjust poor Laura Mallory's meds.

---

After taking my rest at the edge of the deep rift or fissure where Suregait forced me to pause in my blind retreat from setsuled and his orcs, when the sun was rising again, we rode east, hoping to discover the end of this mighty crack in the brittle skin of Gorgoroth or at least an unguarded goblin bridge across. But we searched that way to no avail, and shortly after noon turned and retraced our path westwards. By late afternoon we still had found no crossing, but I did locate a ledge, wide enough for a horse, leading down into the fissure. I thought perhaps we might have no choice but to make our crossing by entering the crack and hoping that a similar ledge could be located on the far side, the route by which we might manage our exit back to the surface. But this seems now to have been only my latest deadly error in judgment, for we are lost, and at least an entire night and day must have come and gone since entering the fissure.

After searching in vain for a corresponding, ascending path, I led Suregait along a narrow side branch or, were this a river and not but a dry crack in the world, I might say tributary, which seemed, for a time, to rise, bearing us up from those black depths. But too soon it proved a dead end, pinching out with at least two hundred feet still remaining before we might have regained the surface. By then the sun was well down, and it seems that neither the light of star nor moon can reach us here. I do not believe I have ever known or imagined such a profound absence of light. I am writing this by the stub of a candle from Suregait's saddle bag, where I also found my flint. When this wick is gone, there shall be no more light until the dawn.

I believe this rift must have been opened during the final eruption of Orodruin, when the One Ring was cast into the Forge of Sauron and unmade. It is a labyrinth, Inwë, and I have passed entrances to what I take to be ancient tunnels, leading yet deeper into the rotten flesh of Mordor. I paused at one and listened, thinking I heard the distant sound of running water. My thirst had grown so great that I almost followed that path wherever it might lead me, but Suregait blocked my way, though her thirst must also be terrible. I hear things in the darkness. I fear I am not alone in this dreadful pit. I was mad to take this road. I was mad to ever have come within twice a hundred leagues of Mordor or to have accepted this impossible quest. And if I was not mad then, I must be mad now. Mad with fear and with thirst. And with guilt and doubt, as well, for I can not conceive why Radagast would not have rejoined me, save his shame at my deserting the imprisoned Easterlings. I will stop writing here, Inwë. I must conserve what little remains of the candle. I may need it farther along. I will try to sleep now and hope to dream of the shining Vales of Anduin, of brave horesmen with green shields emblazoned with golden suns and flying green banners with fine white horses painted upon them.

---

Comments

[sclerotic-rings.livejournal.com]

No snarkiness, and nothing but appreciation for the thoughts going through docbrite's head, but I feel for her. When I quit, it was a mercy killing for a twit who figured that snark was a replacement for forethought or analysis, and I'm glad that "Paul T. Riddell" is dead, because I didn't much care for him. In her case, though, I can see that she's still a writer in the best possible sense, and that she has that worst curse of all: she has stories she wants to tell and tell well. The fact that her editor doesn't understand that...well, this is what you get when you give people like me editorial positions, expense accounts, and the occasional mention in Publisher's Weekly to feed the already Brobdingnagian ego. If she needs time to figure out whether she wants to keep telling those stories or if she wants to find a new medium to tell them, I'm the last person to tell her that it's a bad idea.

[docbrite.livejournal.com]

Thanks; I appreciate these comments. Over the past several months, I've occasionally thought of your quitting and wondered if I would end up in the same situation. You're correct that wanting/having to tell particular stories as well as you're capable of is a kind of curse; I'd be much better off financially if I'd been the sort of writer who could crank out 43,725 Lost Souls sequels, but that was never an option, not so much due to any high-flown integrity as because I am simply incapable of "cranking out" anything; if I can't find a way of caring about the work, I cannot do it.

[sclerotic-rings.livejournal.com]

Of course you won't end up in the same situation as me: you have talent.

[txtriffidranch.livejournal.com]

The other aspect to mention is that you don't have any reason to question the work itself. In my case, I looked at the shit I was writing, wondered why I was killing myself for no return on articles that weren't even close to relevant to anything, wondered further why I was working so damn hard to pick fights with people that didn't need any grief from me, and took the "T." out to the yard and gave him a twelve-gauge cerebral enema. I look back upon the totality of my "work" with nothing but shame and horror. However, Liquor alone is enough for you to ascertain that even if you give yourself a break from writing, you've still reasons to return to it whenever you want.

And along that line, although I haven't said anything until now, I really want to apologize for the uncalled-for shit I wrote about your work in Tangent all those years ago. That was uncalled-for, and it's still one of my listed reasons as to why I quit writing and went Brother Cadfael. Now if I can just get that Sarracenia cultivar going, as I think it's high time that someone stopped naming carnivorous plant cultivars after Lovecraft characters and started naming them after female horror and suspense writers...

[docbrite.livejournal.com]

And along that line, although I haven't said anything until now, I really want to apologize for the uncalled-for shit I wrote about your work in Tangent all those years ago.

Was that when you said I was single-handedly ruining horror? I never saw it, but Christa Faust told me about it. If so, no apology necessary; I was at such a cocky, obnoxious point in my life that I actually thought stuff like that was cool and kinda flattering: "YEAH! I'm single-handedly dismantling a whole genre!"

[docbrite.livejournal.com]

As for her long entry of this morning, I don't think she would want me commenting upon it.

Au contraire: please feel free to do so. I'm always interested in your comments on writing, and being an egocentric bastard, I'm even more interested when they apply to me.

[greygirlbeast.livejournal.com]

Au contraire: please feel free to do so. I'm always interested in your comments on writing, and being an egocentric bastard, I'm even more interested when they apply to me.

Well, in that case...we shall see. I may mouth off yet.

[txtriffidranch.livejournal.com]

Now that's going to be interesting as well.

[cause-catyljan.livejournal.com]

Honestly, someone needs to adjust poor Laura Mallory's meds

Things must be going pretty well for this person if HP in schools is her most pressing concern.

[greygirlbeast.livejournal.com]

Things must be going pretty well for this person if HP in schools is her most pressing concern.

Indeed.

[rowancat.livejournal.com]

I just read the docbrite post.
When did publishers start telling established
writers what to write about? Or how? It's almost like
she's working for a tv show, that's how bad it sounds.
Yeah, she obviously needs a publisher who will support
her work no matter which direction her writings take.

Even if she has to writes some "popular" stuff to support
herself, it still bears her name and has to be up to her
standards.

I suppose i'm just being naive here though... about an industry
that seems to be turning cutthroat and all about the bottom line.

[greygirlbeast.livejournal.com]

When did publishers start telling established
writers what to write about?

I'm afraid I could cite examples dating back at least to the late 18th Century.

Yeah, she obviously needs a publisher who will support
her work no matter which direction her writings take.

These days, NYC publishers rarely support authors. Publishers support product, and only so long as that product is profitable.

[jomacmouse.livejournal.com]

You've described writing a novel as being a bit like telepathy, so to have a form of communication treated as a mere thing with a unique selling point sounds very rough indeed, even to a non-writer like myself.