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Some poor soul sent me a comment about the unfinished symphony clattering and banging of a drawer of kitchen implements falling down the stairs that is A Truth Universally Acknowledged, which has been mouldering untouched for years (literally) over at AO3.

As I happen to have more plot for the thing, so much plot, and as it's a rainy weekend of rain, I ground out a chapter and a half more of the thing. My god, fiction is hard. Long form fiction is hard. Why did I ever start this? WHO THOT THIS GOOD IDEA? (Me. Me is who.)

But yes, I'm working on the damn thing. Again.

Late to the party? Fic, what fic?

I've talked about it before.

Here if you must know.

In other news, I'm tearing out a chimney at work and while it is filthy dusty work (chimney is very old, covered in horsehair plaster, soot galore inside flue) all I can think of is Ramona Quimby playing brick factory. It's a very similar activity.
which_chick: (Default)
Fiction has always been hard for me. I can do snark with the best of them and I like nonfiction because I know where I stand with that. But fiction… fiction is a whitewater river whose pools of detailed description and rocks of excessive handholding conspire to bury the kayak of my narrative, swirling it round and round under the smooth surface of the pool until the narrative gasps helplessly for air in
obedience to a compulsion stronger than the conscious mind and dies with a lungful of river water. Fiction is not my friend. Take, for example, a manor house library in regency-era Kent. In November, at the close of day. Tall windows along one side, to let in the light, yes. But you have other things to consider.

Things? What things? )

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