Com barne, ye trillithe castike

Yes! And to you and yours a fearsome soft Monday. No cutting off of heads on this day, because they'll be needed for combat later in the week. At the moment, I'm over here because there comes a point when you just can't look at your current chapter anymore, and I'm there. Which is what I mean when I say "over here." This blog is "here," the point is "there." Clear? Good? Good. It's not a bad place to be, because it means you've spent a lot of time with your work.

ZAANG I'm in Mexico City on the floor of the concrete block code-violatin' room on top of the apartment building in my sleeping bag listening to Sarah McLachlan sing "Happy Phantom" from the CD player on the table above me and the cat's next to it leaning over the edge and retching with altitude sickness please don't puke on me calico Cleo-cat whoo-hoo time to be a ghost ZAANG

Which is why I don't have much to say about the practicalities of writing on this blog. I mean: there are 1.1 million Google results for "novel cover letter." And I'm betting that a good many of those are written by people who have actually, you know, published a novel.

SCHAASH I'm driving pell-mell through the night from Jersey City into Manhattan on a Thursday just to be with you and "Iris" is playing on the radio and I can tell it's the kind of moment that I'll always remember even though I might not remember what happens when I actually get to your apartment SCHAASH

Similarly, it doesn't make much sense for me to presume to tell you much about how to write, because there are 332 million Google results for "Writing" and most of them probably have more authority than I do about the nuts and bolts of the thing. Then there's the disturbing truth that the most important bits about writing can't really be taught, so at a certain point you've either got what it takes or you don't. I mean, nobody can tell you how to get a voice, can they? The most you can hope for is to find someone who can say, "Yes! That sentence is your unique voice, right there, the rest of this is you trying to be Hemingway, except for that bit, which is a weird Clive Barker/James Patterson hybrid that you must never attempt again because I'll kill you if you do."

fweee I'm hiking along the ridge line with Soobie and the other Scouts and we're bellowing "Santa Lucia" at the top of our lungs because it reminds us of the moors in American Werewolf in London and Chuck gets freaked out even though it's the middle of the morning because he can't see what might be hiding in the mist thirty feet away fweee

In any event, it doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense to me to be intensely focused on marketing and querying and such before the "product" is nearly finished. Focusing on that at this point is an indication of wanting to Get Published. Not the proper focus at all, in my somewhat-humble opinion. Write the story first. Get it right. Then market. Yeah, I've got this "platform" here, but you'll notice there's not much to it, right? That's because I'm busy with other things. It's not time yet.

And I've got to stop this post now. Can't seem to focus for some reason, my mind won't stay put. You know, Twinkies have shrunk since I was a kid, and so have Ho-Hos, but Ding-Dongs seem to be the same size.

What's up with that?