the wages of salt » Deborah Kalin

postscripts

journal, pre-crash, the wages of salt, writing life 19 Responses »

Apr 252007

Well, I've slept on it, and hours and hours have passed, and no further email has appeared in my inbox telling me it was all a wicked joke…

So I guess I've just sold a story to POSTSCRIPTS.

Needless to say, I am thrilled (if a little stunned). But heck, I was pretty stunned when my query earned a "send the story along" response¹. So when the second email appeared in my inbox, I avoided it. They'd only had the story for a day, after all. Bound to be a rejection. Plenty of time to catalogue what kind of rejection in a moment.

Except this time? Apparently not.

The story in question is, yes, the one I've been wrangling recently, "The Wages of Salt". No idea when it will see actual print, since I understand POSTSCRIPTS is bought up a fair way into the future at the moment.

An enormous shout-out (of the I owe you a beer or beverage of your choice kind) to my Rimfire crew: Nike, Rju, Ben, Andy, Kaaron, Matt, and Rosaleen, who gave me such constructive feedback on this story I had to rewrite it from the ground up. Which means they won't recognise it any more, but they helped make it what it is.

I hate querying. I have always maintained I can't write queries. I guess maybe I can't maintain that any more? [↩]

anguish!

journal, pre-crash, shadow queen, the wages of salt 8 Responses »

Apr 162007

I need a new tag or category or something: writers is nuts.

Two weeks ago, I finished the beta draft of the novel. For values of finished = I couldn't stand the thought of the manuscript. In an example of avoidance excellence, I was getting to the point where, if anyone said "novel" in my presence, I would develop a bone-crushing weariness and a deep and abiding compulsion to nap, there and then. So, finished.

And now? I have the first comments back from one of the beta-readers.

And suddenly I am itching to work on the novel again, even though I know if I start before I have all the comments back I'll only have to go over old territory yet one more time.

Like I said, writers is nuts.

In other news, the short story? Still not finished. But close! Oh, so close.¹

I hope. [↩]

don't be fooled — it is all about me

journal, pre-crash, the wages of salt 10 Responses »

Apr 142007

This past week I have:

:: committed follicular folly — I have a fringe. (I don't know if Americans would call it "bangs" or not, as I've never quite wrapped my head around what bangs, exactly, are.) It's one of those fringes that's too long to be worn as a fringe and has to be swept off to the side, but yes, fringe. It tickles and itches. It also draws compliments. It requires styling so it dries right. It also draws compliments. The eternal dilemma: looking good for others, or laziness.

:: eaten far too much chocolate. In one spectacular fall from grace, I actually managed to consume an entire red tulip white chocolate rabbit — 200g — in one day. Not my cleverest move.

:: been rather stunned by the question What about work? Don't you meet any nice men through work?.¹

:: discovered a distinct lack of availability in oaten hay. How is the powerbunny supposed to maintain a trim figure if the pet stores insist on selling only lucerne hay?

I don't really like not having a novel to work on. There's all this extra space in my brain, and nothing quite fills it up right. I've been wrangling that short story in the meantime — just like the original draft, and every other attempted revision, it's taking longer than I thought possible. It also now bears little to no resemblance to the original version, which is a strange and slightly jagged thought. But sometimes, what you need to get the story started, isn't needed to make the story live.

To fully appreciate this, you need to understand I work at an IVF clinic. The men I meet through work? Are trying to impregnate wives and girlfriends. [↩]

the light, the heat, i am complete

pre-crash, shadow queen, the wages of salt, writing life 2 Responses »

Apr 012007

We have book. We have book delivered to beta-readers.

We have author, stuck in post-novel restlessness. (The ennui either hasn't hit yet, or has passed already in those last two nights I spent virtually comatose. Only time will tell.)

It's a strange, and largely useless, state of mind. I want to work on — and finish! finish! — everything I have. But of course I can't settle. And my focus is just slightly skewed. And I keep skipping back and forth, writing snippets out of order. (My writing peeps will be horrified. All their good work, trying to stop me writing scattershot, and here I am falling off the wagon. Again.)

I've been working on a short story I originally wrote in Octoberish last year. I've started revising it a couple of times since, but had to put it aside because it just wasn't settling right, somewhere inside my head. I don't know if today's efforts are more of the same or if they're working at last. I'm going to hope for the latter. Writers is nuts, and writing is nuts.

Also? It's the end of summer. My right arm is (slightly) tanned, and my left arm is not. Guess whose car windows aren't tinted?

one day more

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Jan 242007

I cannot concentrate today. If someone were to barge in, place a shotgun to my temple and shout, "Quick, what's the square root of one?" I doubt I'd be able to find an answer. (Well, sure, yes, the shotgun might make me wibble at the best of times. But hush in the galleries, would you? I'm trying to make a point.)

I suspect today's bout of scatty-head has much to do with the fact that my eyes have decided to misbehave. By which I mean they've started blacking out at seemingly random moments, that sort of thing. Oh, yes, and one feels quite swollen, although it's much better now than it was over the weekend. Does make any sort of activity a touch difficult.

But! We shall forge on. Hopefully I'll regather some momentum before the night's out, and maybe this time when I take on the short story, I'll win. For a change.

(or not.)

22 january 2007

pre-crash, shadow queen, the wages of salt 2 Responses »

Jan 222007

Revised Words: 2,595 / 2,770 (Dead Queen), 1,411 / 1,740 (Blessed)
Soundtrack: Garden State, Scrubs
Exercise: An hour and a half! It didn't help my plotwork any.

That hope I had, of the rest of this short story falling into place now I'd found the new structure? Unfounded. Utterly. Honestly, it's like waging war. I have answered story's latest recalcitrance and stubbornness with editing everything I know will be staying. Which means tomorrow may prove rather … trying
I am a lucky, lucky writergirl.

that sound you heard…?

journal, pre-crash, the wages of salt 2 Responses »

Jan 212007

…is the sound of this story wiping the floor with me.

It just took me an hour and a half to come up with a new way of beginning this story. An hour. And a half.

It's not even in the final perfect and polished form. There's a little note next to it which says "Erk. Fix this so it's, you know, readable."

Okay, so it's an awful lot better than my first attempt at starting this story — which was very clearly me wandering around the setting I'd created, humming to myself and wondering how and when and precisely why all the characters got together and started, you know, storying. Whereas now those first six pages have been condensed into one sentence¹.

So, yes. Progress. In its way.

On the upside, now that I've figured out the new structure for this story, there's a chance the rest of it might fall into place. That's tonight's writer's lie, anyway. Wish me luck.

No doubt everything in those first six pages which didn't make it into that one sentence (namely, everything, since that one sentence is entirely new) will in fact be dissected and threaded through the rest of the story. But still. [↩]

today i wrote yesterday's words. only different.

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Oct 142006

So it looks like the possum is not sick or injured. She's just decided the corner is a neato place and thanks very much. She seems to wander away for food and whatnot during the night and just wants to spend the days sleeping there. H'm. Better there than trying to get into the roofspace, I suppose.

In inane slightly boggling news, yesterday I met a Parisian who informed me, with all the dignity that only a French accent can bestow, that he would call me Deborah rather than Deb. I didn't quite follow the reasoning, although it had something to do Australians being lazy with names and therefore you should never give them an already-shortened version of your name because then they'll shorten it again. But seriously? How're you going to shorten Deb? I suppose you could get all minimalistic on me and shorten it to D.

In other news, the short story? Well, let's not talk about the short story. Last night I tried to use a nifty little program called Dark Room, to help shut out the internets and help me concentrate. And all went well, until I came to the end. I copied the text from the Dark Room program, pasted it into the manuscript. Deleted it from Dark Room. Put it in order in the manuscript. Then pressed close.

And when the little alert flashed up asking Do you want to save the changes?

I clicked No.

Lost! Losst! The precious, my precious!

Ah well. They were probably crap words anyway. Let's hope so, eh? Because they ain't coming back.

we now return you to your regular lunacy programming

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Oct 072006

The blasted short story wants to be written longhand. And it wants to be written a hundred words at a time.

Have explained to story that time is pressing and a hundred words a day will not cut it. Story remains unmoved. Have threatened story with never being written, but story is unfazed. You've written the ending, it points out. As if it's content with only the ending!

Must find way to convince story it does not have the upper hand.

Am not optimistic.

some things never change

journal, pre-crash, shadow queen, the wages of salt 2 Responses »

Oct 052006

Today's word of the day?

golem

noun (in Jewish legend) a clay figure brought to life by magic.

an automaton or robot.

— origin late 19th cent.: from Yiddish goylem, from Hebrew golem ‘shapeless mass’.

This is my novel's way of sneaking up on me. It wants revising, it wants out the door — and if I won't let it out except in clean, fresh clothes and unfractured bones, then it wants the cleaning and refreshing and the knitting of bones now.

I will be strong. I will not revise. I will write this new short story what has a title! and a plot! and setting! but has no words. Because right now, only short stories need apply for brainspace.

(Why, yes, I am loopy — what gave it away?)

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