Once upon a time there was a novel called Funland. It had a tough gestation, one that I documented at length in what feels like another lifetime and can hardly believe was only five years ago, and for its troubles it ended up with its name changed, to the less blunt but perhaps sillier War For Funland. Then it sat for a long, long time on my hard drive as I got diverted by the adventures of a certain Mister Easie Damasco, rapscallion and thief of giants. Then I came back to it and decided that War For Funland should be called Degenerates, for a whole lot of reasons but mainly because it was a much better title, and rewrote it again and again and again.
Novels don't always come easily.
But hammer away at them for long enough, as if your life depends on it enough, and they do eventually get finished. As such, I'm declaring Degenerates, nee Funland, temporarily War For Funland, to be finally done. Because it is. And now, after five and a bit years, I get to the really difficult part, which is trying to sell the thing. But I don't want to think about that, let alone talk about it here - so let's move on spryly to happier pastures.
Because elsewhere, my sixth novel and first stab at writing crime at any length, The Bad Neighbour, should be finished early in December, and I felt good about the second draft so I'm not expecting too much in the way of unexpected horrors. (Though I suppose it's fair to say that the thing about unexpected horrors is that you don't expect them.) Meanwhile I'm maybe three weeks off completing the first draft of White Thorne, my medieval witch detective novel*, and book number seven - eight? Hell, I've actually lost count - is comfortably hovering near to its first draft midway point. That of course being as good a reason as any to start plotting the next one, which I'm scheduled to begin at the start of December, assuming that the novella I'm writing in the meantime doesn't overrun.
And yes, in case you're wondering, I'm now officially working on too much stuff. For some reason that possibly involves bad planning or maybe makes no sense at all, everything seems to be falling out at exactly the same time. Then again, the flip side of that is that there's an imminent point - in January, to be precise - when I'll be working on a mere two novels.
That's going to be really weird.
* As in, she's a witch who becomes a detective and it's set in the Middle Ages. I really need to find a way to phrase that better.
Novels don't always come easily.
But hammer away at them for long enough, as if your life depends on it enough, and they do eventually get finished. As such, I'm declaring Degenerates, nee Funland, temporarily War For Funland, to be finally done. Because it is. And now, after five and a bit years, I get to the really difficult part, which is trying to sell the thing. But I don't want to think about that, let alone talk about it here - so let's move on spryly to happier pastures.
Because elsewhere, my sixth novel and first stab at writing crime at any length, The Bad Neighbour, should be finished early in December, and I felt good about the second draft so I'm not expecting too much in the way of unexpected horrors. (Though I suppose it's fair to say that the thing about unexpected horrors is that you don't expect them.) Meanwhile I'm maybe three weeks off completing the first draft of White Thorne, my medieval witch detective novel*, and book number seven - eight? Hell, I've actually lost count - is comfortably hovering near to its first draft midway point. That of course being as good a reason as any to start plotting the next one, which I'm scheduled to begin at the start of December, assuming that the novella I'm writing in the meantime doesn't overrun.
And yes, in case you're wondering, I'm now officially working on too much stuff. For some reason that possibly involves bad planning or maybe makes no sense at all, everything seems to be falling out at exactly the same time. Then again, the flip side of that is that there's an imminent point - in January, to be precise - when I'll be working on a mere two novels.
That's going to be really weird.
* As in, she's a witch who becomes a detective and it's set in the Middle Ages. I really need to find a way to phrase that better.
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