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Words and deeds and thinking, oh my
Apr. 10th, 2017 04:40 pmIt's been a while. I never intended to become so intermittent with the blogging, but just lately it hasn't seemed like that there was much that I wanted to say. There's the state of the world... but much of my life in recent months has been bound up with that, and words are not enough. There's the state of me -- but I really don't find myself that interesting, and I certainly believe that the rest of the world don't really need to know about the routine of books and laundry and cats (well, maybe the cats). I had eye surgery in mid-December, and it healed well; I had shingles in March, which I could have lived without and for which I am holding Theresa May personally responsible. I'm doing some teaching on speculative fiction for one of the local universities, and that's the best bit right now (and the students are lovely: talented and motivated and engaged).
And I didn't write and didn't write, from November onwards, because, well, the state of the world, and the state of the book (which is evil) and the eyes and the shingles (but not the students).
And then on Friday I sat down and wrote a 1000 words. Not on the book I'm meant to be writing. Not on the other book, either, but on something new and shiny and unexpected. And the words came back, and that's good. (I'm holding <user name=dancinghorse) partly responsible for this, because a conversation I was having with her on Facebook was just the trigger I needed: so, thank you, Judy, you are once again my hero and my role-model). Here's a snippet: "The hounds were hunting. Stars scudded across the sky, taking cover behind wisps of cloud. The moon rode low, horns reaching out to hook anyone or anything careless enough to come to close. Dust splattered and span out with every tread, every bound the hounds took. Ice snapped in the air. Bess shivered and pulled her thin wrap up over her head. Her hands, in their shabby wool mittens, sought sanctuary within the sleeves of her rough knit coat. The linen of the wrap was scant defence against the wind, blowing wolf-breathed from the east. A fine night for hunting. A fine night for fear and pain and blood. A fine night for war... She crested the ridge, worn boots slipping on the wet earth. A line of dull amber marched along the skyline to the east. Someone’s home, someone’s livelihood, was on fire. More than one someone, for certain: several hundred, most like. She whispered a blessing under breath, and made herself move on. War was not her business tonight, whether in heaven or down here." So far, it wants to have old magic and hidden places, war and resistance, Aramis, and, heaven help me, Lenin. (I know. My brain.) I think I like it. Skirt of the day: San Jose teal and fuchsia
And I didn't write and didn't write, from November onwards, because, well, the state of the world, and the state of the book (which is evil) and the eyes and the shingles (but not the students).
And then on Friday I sat down and wrote a 1000 words. Not on the book I'm meant to be writing. Not on the other book, either, but on something new and shiny and unexpected. And the words came back, and that's good. (I'm holding <user name=dancinghorse) partly responsible for this, because a conversation I was having with her on Facebook was just the trigger I needed: so, thank you, Judy, you are once again my hero and my role-model). Here's a snippet: "The hounds were hunting. Stars scudded across the sky, taking cover behind wisps of cloud. The moon rode low, horns reaching out to hook anyone or anything careless enough to come to close. Dust splattered and span out with every tread, every bound the hounds took. Ice snapped in the air. Bess shivered and pulled her thin wrap up over her head. Her hands, in their shabby wool mittens, sought sanctuary within the sleeves of her rough knit coat. The linen of the wrap was scant defence against the wind, blowing wolf-breathed from the east. A fine night for hunting. A fine night for fear and pain and blood. A fine night for war... She crested the ridge, worn boots slipping on the wet earth. A line of dull amber marched along the skyline to the east. Someone’s home, someone’s livelihood, was on fire. More than one someone, for certain: several hundred, most like. She whispered a blessing under breath, and made herself move on. War was not her business tonight, whether in heaven or down here." So far, it wants to have old magic and hidden places, war and resistance, Aramis, and, heaven help me, Lenin. (I know. My brain.) I think I like it. Skirt of the day: San Jose teal and fuchsia
