Twiddling

So, thanks to the Blitz of Last Week I did in fact finish a first draft on the Really Big Thing I've been working on; whether that will be successful or not is a different story entirely, but I've been pretty thrilled with the work I've done and I'm pretty excited to get some feedback and do some revisions. 

Especially since this one was really really risky for me.  There's sex and there's graffiti and COPIOUS swearing and there's art and there's really difficult, complicated emotions.  I don't think it's even close to perfect yet, but having a full draft--and knowing that it is within my capability to finish the damn thing--is a huge relief. 

But now I'm waiting for feedback and...I'm just waiting. 

Well, no, I'm trying to catch up on the backlog of busy work that needs doing, and I've been reading a lot around a new story idea I have, which includes reading Giacomo Casanova's memoirs.  Dude, that man was a saucy, saucy minx.  In the bit I've read so far, he tried to seduce one girl with two others in the room, then told her she hated him because she wouldn't put out, then two months later (but nary a page later) he has sex with the two other girls (sisters!) in the same bed--at the same time.  And deflowers both of them. 

And the tactics!  The TACTICS!  These gambits are still in play today.  The man was a master of reverse psychology before the term was even invented. 

Oh, Casanova.

It's actually kind of hysterical, and makes me feel like I got game by proxy.  Which I don't--by proxy or any other way.

But other than that, I'm RESTLESS.  I don't like being between novels.  I don't like not having another, fully fleshed world to think about other than my own.  LAME. 

So I'm blogging, about nothing in particular.  I cleaned out my camera and posted pics on FB; I intend to soon swap out my summer wardrobe for my winter one, winterize my bedding (YAY flannel) and tidy up.  Make my way through some netflix backlog...and generally be a big old lump on a log.  Dare to dream. 

God, what the hell would I do with myself if I weren't a writer?  I'm starting to see the value of those things they call "boyfriends"--but only if they'll consent to disappear while I'm actually working on a novel. 

 

Hm.