Today has been horribly slow. At 11:30, I’m 800 words behind, which is not so bad in light of a quota of 21,000 on the week… but I would finish them if I could keep my eyes open. I literally can’t, not for fiction. And I have nothing to say about the day’s process. Walking didn’t work, coffee didn’t work, pre-outlining the scene didn’t work. I know what the major plot beats are, and unless I’m as wrecked as I am now, those write pretty easily. It’s the connective tissue that’s hard. Or boring. Or something.
Or maybe it’s just that I’ve written more fiction in this week than any other week of my life.
I wanted to say a little something about my workspace in here, but I’m too tired to go take a picture, so let me instead talk a little bit about its heart. A while ago, a friend of mine turned me on to the work of Luke Chueh. I like everything he does, but there was one painting that I just had to have a print of:
I chose the paint color for the room with this in mind. My print is framed, and it sits on my desk, right above my computer; one of these days I’ll get it on the wall.
I do like my metaphors unromantic. They’re useful for a day like today. This painting is framed, Let’s just hope that element symbol on the barrel is more or less right.