No place but the deck, actually. This weekend is set aside for nuttin' but writing. Oh, and I have to do the final polish/edit for "Geppetto's Orphans" which I'm thinking of renaming "The Emergence" but other than that I'll work on the new story. Me write gooder. That's the program.
Unless something comes up. Which can always happen in my rough and tumble life of never-ending slap-happy excitement. Not.
I did three pages on Thursday. That was a good start on the new story. I was telling my writing buddy if I wrote ten of these Haxan stories I might be able to pastiche them into a novel. Each one is running about 7.3K (give or take) so ten stories would be 73,000 words. Easy. And if I could sell one or two individual stories to magazines that would be better.
We'll see.
Oh, I got a personal rejection letter type thingy from Stan Schmidt at Analog. Kinda nice. I don't mind getting these so much. It's the badly-Xeroxed copies of "Get the hell outta here, ya bastid!" that sting. Although, to be honest, I haven't gotten one of those from a magazine in a long, long time. I actually feel pretty good about this. Maybe I shouldn't, but I do. It's not the writing that holds me back anymore. That's not what prompts any rejection I get from magazines or publishers, I'm pretty certain of that.
Kinda certain. Pretty sure. Half-ass suspect.
Because, well, you know: Me write gooder.
And all that jazz....
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