Monday, December 01, 2003
How can it be frelling December again already? That's just not possible.
Last night, I e-mailed an rtf of the ms. for Murder of Angels to my editor, at precisely 11:34 p.m. Which means that I made my deadline with 26 minutes to spare. In the end, the ms. came to a whopping (well, it seems whopping to me) 120,625 words, 568 pp., 3,349 paragraphs. Spooky and I spent all day on it, finishing up at that needing finishing up. It was a day of frazzled nerves. I took a dinner break for leftover turkey, then watched an AMC bio on Dr. Seuss, then went back to work on the thing. And now it's gone, out of my hands for at least a few weeks, maybe a month or two.
And I need to get back to the "Untitled Novella." And I'm fighting that urge I mentioned earlier, the one that tells me to run, get out of here, go anywhere. Spend some time in museums and aqauriums, on unfamiliar roads and walking beaches. But. I need to get back to the "Untitled Novella," and the screenplay, and so it goes.