I like fruitcake (you knew that, I suspect) and eggnog. I like fruitcake soaked in Irish Whiskey. I like eggnog soaked in rum.
I like crime fiction soaked in both together or alternately.
Sorry for the departure on aliens yesterday. The day turned odd on me and so there we have it.
I'm back at WIP tonight knowing that as I begin to loath the effort at present, it is because the idea has grown more mature and the last chapters will incorporate items completely absent in the early ones.
Shitty first draft: it is what happens when we tell ourselves the story. The next draft begins to move toward what we might enjoy.
It is a bit like fruitcake. Until the whiskey cure, there isn't a lot to love. Afterwards, the flavors meld and the richness of the tart amber against the prism of candied fruit makes it all work together.
I wanted to say in this entry tonight that I am here in the writing by the light of a single bulb in my library because of a teacher long ago. If Andy hadn't been adamant about "make a mess then clean it up" as the key to the modern construction of prose, I'd be wandering among the headstones wondering where it all went.
He convinced me that thinking like a poet was not a bad thing.
Now, off to fiction and the land of lies.
Hope the rum helps you sleep. Try the fruitcake! We've got lots.
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