& the birds they come calling

I finished “Sundays at Tiffany’s” by James Patterson last night. It’s a literary fantasy romance. It was quite fun, an easy read. There were parts that felt thinner than others, and a couple of scenes that didn’t have any setting (which, after I finished the scene, Jack made me go back and look at again.)

I’ve started “Railsea” by China Mieville. It’s his take or rewrite or retelling or something of “Moby Dick.” Jack has no idea what to do with this book. It’s written in language that’s so very different than everything else. He’s kind of lost and not sure what to pay attention to. But he’s going along with it because he can tell there’s something there, though he’s not sure what or how he’ll ever use it.

Me — I get the feeling, though I have no idea if I’m right or not, was that China was having fun while he was writing this. This is wordplay and style and different textures, wordsmithery at its finest. I don’t know Moby Dick well enough to get all the jokes and references, but I’m probably getting at least half, and enjoying it immensely. Is this one of his books that I’d recommend to just anyone? No. This is a different read than most books. But for those who I think would enjoy the wordsmithery and style, this is a fantastic book.

And speaking of books and writing – I’m kind of stuck. I felt stuck writing the novel, so I started writing a new short story, but I’m not pleased with it, so I went back to the novel tonight and finished chapter fourteen.

42625 / 70000

I know what happens in the next scene, how to jump into it, so I’m hoping that I’ll write all of the next chapter on Monday.

In the meanwhile, I’m thinking my creative brain was lying to me about the short story. I wanted to write an erotica short story to match the one I’d just finished. My brain supplied me with a story, assuring me that there would be sexy times ahead.

I’m not seeing it.

Instead, I’m seeing the character of the paranormal mystery that I want to write, some of her background, some of what “the troubles” are, and man, I want to write this short story, I really do want to write this short story, but I’m so very afraid that it’s actually the start of the novel that I don’t want to write yet. I’d like to finish the other novel first, mkay? (That’s actually a huge part of the problems with this short story, I was promised sexy times and trying to make those happen is short-circuiting the story and I need to just let go and write the damn story, regardless.)

Ah writers. So many ideas and voices, like birds that come calling, and never enough time.

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