Tag Archives: winter

I'm writing about werewolves, and people keep sending me squirrels

1016418_764310766931721_689618277_nAlthough, I have to say, this one I totally agree with. It’s not so much that it’s cold (but it is!), it’s that the temperature keeps bouncing up and down from above freezing to “holy shit, I think the lava just froze!”. I do worry about the wild animals, as this kind of weather is really hard on them–they get wet during the warm weather and all the insulating snow disappears, then the temperature drops twenty or twenty-five degrees. I’m guessing we see a lot of skinny foxes and a lot fewer birds and small animals this summer. I’ve been setting feed out, but that only goes so far.

The werewolves are coming along nicely, or not nicely, depending on your point of view. There’s certainly some nasty psychological stuff going on, and I need to chat with someone with more skillz than I have to find out how I might do this certain thing I think I should do. My characters always seem to be conflicted, and they often come down just barely over the line into good-guy territory.

Wonder what that says about me?

Anyway, the progress meter is creeping up, and so is my daily word count. Hopefully, the trend continues. I have a lot of stories waiting for some love and some of them are getting impatient.

Input = Output

So, holidays are over, and it’s back to work. Back to the day job, back to the night job, back to writing. Not that I wasn’t trying to write over Christmas, but Mother Nature had other ideas:

Winter 1 Winter 4

This was two storms ago. I can see the corners wearing away on my poor shovel and am already plotting a replacement.

In the midst of all my nature-inspired strength and endurance training, I forgot to read. For those of you who write, you know full well how important it is that a writer continue to read. Inside their genre, outside their genre–it doesn’t matter. But, I was ‘hooked on shoveling’ (or trapped in shoveling, if I wanted to get out of the house), and so my poor Kobo lay on my bedside table, a forlorn and forgotten object.

Then my muse got pissed, because I wasn’t giving him/her/xem anything. For those who think that muses are delicate creatures, who need to be coaxed and seduced into cooperation–boy, are you wrong. Muses are bratty, rough, coarse and very, very self-oriented. That’s why we spend so much time courting them–they’ve got more ego than a whole roomful of Hollywood stars and have no compunction about flying the coop if they don’t get exactly what they want.

So, while the snow flies and the wind whistles about my house, I’m making offerings to my muse, in the form of my TBR pile. The Peacock Prince is my current bait–I was surprised because I thought the premise wouldn’t work, and yet it does. Next up, I’m not sure–Flesh Cartel comes out tonight. And I have Fortune’s Pawn, which is not erotic romance, but an interesting and well-written scifi.

And there’s my own stuff to work on. Because now that I’m putting out for him/her/xem, there’s a slow strip-tease of plot occurring, a gradual reveal of the curves and edges of the storyline. Not everything, not yet, and certainly not enough to satisfy, but it keeps me coming back.

Just like a good striptease should.