I Have No Brain, and I Must Think

[dancinghorse]

I've been having a very nice time noodling on the (lunatic) fringes of various writercentric discussions elsewhere, but when I try to come up with something here, the synapses won't fire.  This is not too worrisome, since it merely means I've been blitzing fiction for so long I'm all out of blitzons.  They'll regenerate in a few weeks.

Or maybe I simply have a limited capacity for creative thinking.  My dreams, such of them as I remember, are usually incredibly mundane.  I never had an imaginary friend--though I told numerous stories and had a whole slew of "pretend" games, and later I tried little bits of what we now know as fanfic, which quickly gave way to my own elaborate science-fantasy stories set in a rather strange universe which later grew into the Avaryan books.

Maybe I'm just really narrowly focused and too idiosyncratic to do things anyone else's way.

That could be it.

Meanwhile, back in Mundania, I've been practicing the fine art of Thud.  Yesterday was mostly spent being horizontal.  Today has been more productive.  Much much cleaning of very muddy barn and very muddy horses.  Capria-ride, ponying keed.  Walkies for da Pook, who was in explorer mode, wanting to check out every little thing.  Excavation of office, which has become a box room of epic proportions.  The boxes (nearly all of books and mss.) are now spread out over two rooms and a hallway, the office floor has been discovered, and the closet is cleared out, waiting for new shelving which can only go up if I acquire tools and hardware that I don't at the moment have.  Tomorrow should remedy at least some of that.

It will be good to have an office floor.  After which, I can excavate the guestroom closet, which also is in a parlous state thanks to the cats--they've played merry hob with everything stored in there.

And so we practice Holiday Hysteria.  I go into kamikaze cleaning mode.  What can I say?

Lessons tomorrow.  Fourth Avenue Street Fair this weekend--the last gasp of my holiday shopping.  Next week may actually be sort of sane, barring a couple of lunches Out and an expedition to purchase a tree.

Books are gestating in the backbrain meanwhile.  A kickass new series is about to start--first volume due in June.  We have outline, we have proposal, we can, once the blitzons have regenerated, boogie.  Imagery to bear in mind: Les Tres Riches Heures of the Duc de Berry, and the Sainte-Chapelle.

Cool email of the day was a fan letter from a Lipizzan breeder whom I hadn't encountered before--clearly a lover of the breed, who like totally got it about Mountain's Call.  I'm very happy when nonhorsepeople like the book, but this is its core audience and potentially its toughest critic.  She liked it.  Go Us.

Comments

[sartorias.livejournal.com]

What She Said; the inspiration well as well as the brain well need time for refilling when a major project has been packed in the bag.

[dancinghorse.livejournal.com]

That's reassuring. I always feel as if everybody else is ever so much more imaginative than I am.

My brain right now is not even firing synapses. It's just sort of sitting there.

[sartorias.livejournal.com]

O boy sometimes it takes me months. And you should see how clean my room gets, my pencils are all ordered, closets get sorted, and all the other footle that will be totally abandoned when the writing urge bites me in the ass again, and drags me back into the cave.

[dancinghorse.livejournal.com]

Well yes. That's when the footle gets de-footled.

January's project: Hack through the jungle of brush around the house. But first, must finish excavating house, because many guests will be coming after the holidays, and need places to sleep.