Dead space

There is no time more desolate or lonely than the time between when the contact high of the drafting is waning and when you’ve rested enough to pick up something and seriously wrestle with revisions again.  I wish I could say I joyfully leap into home improvement or knitting or simply enjoy sitting around reading, but honestly, there are a few days where it’s just hard to not be living in whatever world it was I just left. I suspect some of that is because the imagined worlds don’t have sore backs or plumbing that breaks or a million other issues ranging from the mundane to the serious: none, that is, which aren’t directly related to the plot.  Actually, that’s my main complaint about Real Life.  The plot could use some work.

I want to revise "The Boys of Pleasure," which I started yesterday and saw both that  was right and that there was a way to fix it, but I was too tired to really grasp it.  I started rereading SPECIAL DELIVERY, and I can see some of what is needed, but that baby needs a big morning with the iPod and the whiteboard and a side order of John Nash to get the job done.  I want to work on TEMPLE BOY, but it’s not yet time, because that will be very engaging, and I need to finish the other two first. The thought of writing a synopsis for TSV makes my brain bleed just yet.  At this point I can basically do poker/casino research for the NaNoWriMo book and play Hoyle.

Oh, yeah I’m reading, and trying to rest, but it’s not the same.  I really do like working more than anything, when it’s what I want to do. Anyway.  I figure by the end of the week or early next I’ll be back on my feet.  Trouble is, what to do until then . . . .

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