Playing hooky from writing
There was a funny saying I heard in grad school. A professor said that when she was getting her post-grad degree, her apartment had never been cleaner than during finals week. How can the most mundane tasks suddenly seem so appealing? That same principle is driving this blog entry.
The situation is that I am midway through the second book in a futuristic trilogy about a man living in a "world" that has been sealed up, that has had to grow vertically due to population overgrowth and other reasons I can't go into because it would give too much away. The weight of all the unfinished stories that will be captured over the course of three books, spanning maybe 40 years of narrative time, is a bit daunting. In fact, I have a spreadsheet with 11 separate worksheets just to keep track of everything. It feels like the most important thing I've ever written, and the opportunity to make it golden, to make it shimmer in glowing full-cycle perfection, keeps me plugging away at it. But my goodness, it's a LOT of story to tell!
Ok. Enough whining. Back to work.
The situation is that I am midway through the second book in a futuristic trilogy about a man living in a "world" that has been sealed up, that has had to grow vertically due to population overgrowth and other reasons I can't go into because it would give too much away. The weight of all the unfinished stories that will be captured over the course of three books, spanning maybe 40 years of narrative time, is a bit daunting. In fact, I have a spreadsheet with 11 separate worksheets just to keep track of everything. It feels like the most important thing I've ever written, and the opportunity to make it golden, to make it shimmer in glowing full-cycle perfection, keeps me plugging away at it. But my goodness, it's a LOT of story to tell!
Ok. Enough whining. Back to work.
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