there is no such thing as time

I have an insatiable hunger for meat. Literal, not euphemistic. I'm all right with that so long as I don't think about it too hard (it's dead!).

I'm in the frame of mind I often get into with writing (fanfiction or original), i.e., that there's no reason for anyone to care about my made-up worlds if I don't care about theirs. "They" being the faceless They that we all talk about but never meet, right? Turn a scene in my head so that the light hits it differently and find it lovely all over again, yet at the same time I can't imagine anyone else ever paying it the least bit of attention. It's a version of "what's the point?" that I think is in large proportion simply laziness and a preference for daydreaming over typing and grammar.

I have now seen pictures of my drunken antics of the other night. They are not the worst pictures of me ever, but I still look doughy and lipstickless in a way that runs seriously counter to my in-the-moment feelings of being, well, delectable. Despite the fact that I felt coquettish and girlie, I am baring my teeth and appear to be about to throw Mr. Glove to the ground in one of them.

My NaNo project is languishing while I write background for all the characters. The Jed Sue character is, of course, demanding that her portion be more detailed. There are two main POVs, but perhaps a half-dozen interludes from other POVs are seeming likely and/or sensible. I must confess that, since I intend to work on this until it's done, I don't feel particularly compelled to try to finish it all in November. Instead, I'm working on dozens of overdue projects, including finishing my YnM story (which will be a month late in about an hour). I may still be contacting those who originally offered to do a YnM beta read, though of course you're welcome to tell me to fuck off at this late date.

Oh, and for anyone who was thinking about buying the doorstop book Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, I'd just want to mention that it's a full 771 pages of an excellent 300-page story. Unfortunately, the fake books in the footnotes seem infinitely more interesting than the book being read. It's relentlessly charming. Relentlessly. By the end, I felt like I'd been a poor sport about the whole thing and, despite my lack of desire to ever read it again, I feel bad that I intend to sell it. Susanna Clarke, the author, is a first-timer with Very Important literary friends, so I'm suspicious that she was a sort of Anne-Rice-by-proxy and thus didn't get the editing treatment her story really deserved. I would have so loved this thing at half or less of its published length.

Some of you might be excited by this: Neoterica released the final chapter of Sakende Yaruze! and, while there are no surprises, it's lovely to have it finished.