Another storm, another blackout. I swear, I must live connected to the worst exchange of the worst substation in town. For srs. Other places have trees and possums and yet manage to go entire years without blackouts. Me? If I don't lose power once a month, I may start to believe the whole of Australia has been kidnapped by aliens and translocated somewhere. Somewhere with an unquenchable supply of electrons. In which case I would probably go ravening mad in search of the broadband.
It would not be pretty.
Yesterday, beavering away on the laptop (because if lightning strikes the house, that, my friends, will still keep working and not lose me my meagre words), I decided that I hate this draft so much it's time to simply finish the sucker. Transitions? Transitions shall not even be mentioned. I am writing the paltry scenelets I know, leaving enormous markers for myself which basically note something that makes sense here, m'kay?, and calling it done. This is partly because the manuscript is in such a mess it's actually quite hard to write an ending that ties everything up, since I seem to have neglected to write a goodly portion of the everything. So, in an ugly parody of "write what you know" (ha!), I shall indeed. And only that.
Then I get to go back to the start and take the abysmal draft (which can more rightly be described as an incredibly inefficient outline without any, you know, outline), and do it all again. This time with less suck.
Remarkably, feel moody, and the blogosphere shall deliver: agent Nephele Tempest describes writer's blues, and points to Laura Anne Gilman's post on the same, which just about sums up my mood over the past whenever. (Time blurs a bit in that moodset. It's a side-effect of the brooding.)