Blog posts may be patchy for the next month.
I haven't fallen out of love with you or anything, it's just that I have a lot of work on my plate. This week I've been trying to clear a backlog of short non-fiction commissions, not to mention my sinuses (globe-hopping nose/throat bugs: we hates them). Next week I have to start the death march to the end of the first draft of "Rule 34", which currently stands at 87,000 words and is due to be somewhere in the 100-120,000 word range when complete.
Some novels flow easily, and some are a painful slog. This one is one of the latter. One of my quirks is that I usually get the idea for a novel a couple of years before I have time in my schedule to start writing it; consequently, by the time I'm working on it, I've been living with the idea for so long that it's not fun any more — my muse has already moved on to the next project. I've got a dose of this disease right now, and it's painful. Some writers claim that their muse is a delicate thing that whispers softly in their ear and requires careful nurture. Mine — when he's not AWOL, getting drunk and starting bar fights — trained as a US Marine Corps drill instructor. He sits on my shoulder, screaming abuse through a megaphone — "double down and gimme five thousand words, worm!" — and if I don't deliver, he hits me. Unfortunately right now I'm trying to finish "Rule 34" and he's screaming at me to get stuck into "The Apocalypse Codex" — the fourth Laundry book. Which would be highly inadvisable, because I don't have a contract for it yet, and if I write it prematurely it puts my agent in a poor negotiating position. Not to mention annoying my editor at Ace, because we already pushed back the schedule for
419 "Rule 34" by a year, and she wants that particular novel, not a last-minute unexpected substitute.
I'm going to try and cut a deal with my muse; just let me finish the job in hand, and I'll give him what he wants. You never know; it might work ...