I went to close Scrivener for the day, and realized I'd hit 100,000 words.

Well, huh. :) I guess I was more productive today than I realized, eh?

I was doing some thinking last night, which is something I have a habit of doing.

I've had this LJ for a very long time. And yes, when I started it, I was very much Tookish. But it occurred to me that this name, while adorable and in reference to one of my favorite authors, is not really me.

So, you will find me as elvardia now, in reference to a special place in one of my own stories. I think it's better suited to me.

Well, I'm about 85K words into my latest novel endeavor. I've set up a blog where I'll be posting excerpts. The bulk of the book has taken shape, and I have to go back and do a lot of editing early on--but there's some good sections I thought would be intriguing to post.

You can take a look at it over here.

I love Led Zeppelin, but that is not the point at all.

I was sick last week and completed a series of sketches, chapters, and songs. Actually, I'm still sick now, with the remnants of the flu and the crypt cough. But I am slowly feeling better. I've been trying to eat better, and it's amazing how much easier it is to wake up in the morning.

Thursday is graduation day, and I'll officially have my MA.

The most exciting thing of late is the realization that I'll have time to write come the New Year. I've never been much of one for resolutions--although this Journal itself was a resolution once--but I really do want to give my craft its due. I love singing and drawing, but nothing comes close to the utter compulsion I have to write. It's like being in a fever dream, sometimes. Sure, I could use a good editor; I could use a lot of improvement. But I am utterly passionate about it. Come hell or highwater, I want to get this thing done. Not saying it'll happen next year--but I just want it to be on my mind, and a part of my daily consciousness. So I made some new icons from my sketches to encourage me.

Anyway, I'm heading out for the evening now, after a long day at work. Hope all is well with everyone.

I busy enough for my defense mechanism to kick back in. That's right, folks. The characters have returned, for all two of you who give a rat's ass :)

Oh, and if anyone wants, I'm over at Twitter now, too. PicturaPoesis is me.

We're moving in less than a week. And we've done just about NOTHING in preparation. I've always been a procrastinator, and I married one, so the combination? Not so good. Tomorrow we're having a "Packing Party"--we'll provide beer and pizza for anyone interested in helping us put our shit in boxes. HA!

I think the whole stress of moving has made me a little zany. It's even scared away my writer's brain--all my characters have scattered like cockroaches. My usual coping mechanism gone, I think I've taken on quirks. Last night I had whisky before bed, and as
merynetjeru
 can attest, well, I went a bit cracked in the brain during some of our late night ramblings.

Oh yeah. And the weekend after we move I'm flying to California. And at the moment, I have a head cold.

HAH.

I was talking to someone recently about my book situation. I have one book. But I'm writing a second. And aside from the fact that the setting is essentially the same, the stories are vastly different.

This person (I forgot who it was I was talking to, now) was rather astonished that I wanted to put my first book away for a while. And I was at a loss to explain just why it wasn't right to see the light of day.

I found a neat little article by David Dvorkin (a sci-fi/fantasy/Trek writer), and a section that summed it up perfectly for me:

The first book is different from all the subsequent ones, and not just in the way that one's first sexual experience is different from all the subsequent ones. Normally, when a writer writes his first book, he's young and filled with enthusiasm, with the delight of manipulating words and characters, with the certainty that this book will take the world by storm and bring him fame and fortune. Along the way, he'll also teach the rest of mankind lots of important stuff about life and human nature and politics and whatever else he's thrown into the book. First novels tend to have a whole lotta stuff in 'em. That's partly because our young writer has learned so much about everything in his twenty-something years, and it's partly because he hasn't yet learned to cut out what he sees as brilliant discursions and editors recognize as fat.

Not to say that everyone is like this, but for me... well, that's just perfect. :)

So yeah. That explains it. If you want to read the whole essay, it's here.