I am so glad that February has left. Drat this global warming. It is so freaking cold. Now, if only spring would get here and bring an end to forty degree days, I think I would like that very well. There are many things I can blame on the weather, my stuffy nose and tendancy to hibernate... neglecting my blog is not one of them. For this, I shall blame something else entirely.
As soon as I think of it.
To date, my dreams of publication remain unrealized, except as dreams. My problems are many, but I think one of them is that for every novel completed, I have three or four other great book ideas come to me saying, "ooo, me next. Pick me!"
Honestly, it's worse than having six kids all talking at once. These come to me in quiet moments, whenever my brain is running from the others... And they won't shut up either.
This morning, I lay awake in my bed, watching the pictures behind my eyes take shape. Naturally, it was one of my novels--the one I'm supposed to be working on. I want so badly to finish it, but I know that if I turn away from the editing, it will never get done.
MUST. BE. STRONG.
Gaaahhh. I've recently had a brand new brainstorm for a really fantastic YA sci-fi-ish book that I will (of course) keep secret until it's written and the queries are going out. Those privy to the secret must keep quiet or suffer the pains of... uh... a really, really mad lady. Yeah. I'll sick my kids on you, then you'll be sorry.
On another front: resolutions are stupid. I may be reading and writing and visiting friends, but the back of my brain is stuck on watching those swelling digits from the bathroom scale. The weather is to blame.
And here are the books I've read:
Bella at Midnight by Diane Stanley--
not the most fantastic of stories, but one I enjoyed nonetheless
The Ropemaker by Peter Dickinson--
A fat enough book that I should have known... but still, I hoped for something spectacular, even after the slow beginning. Throughout the book, there were at least three times when I felt strongly that the story needed to end, yet it continued. On and on and on. And this is not to say that the man can't write, quite the contrary, Mr. Dickinson is a very talented writer. But, as this is my personal opinion and I can say whatever I like, after 375 pages I reached the end with the deflated sense of time wasted.
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