My brain hurts

I spent the day writing and writing and writing. I’m still writing. I’m not sure I like my chances for finishing this story in time to make tomorrow’s submission deadline, but I guess I’m going to push through and see what happens. Right now, I’m just sort of stuck, and running out of time. (Also a little worried about winding up with a crap story when I’m done.)

I also managed to do the crossword puzzle today, but that’s about it. I even skipped my weekly writing group to stay home and write. How’s that for pseudo-dedication?!

Have I mentioned, though, that my brain kind of hurts? I think the caffeine, sleep deprivation, and intense focus are starting to get to me. I’ll have all those things in spades, though, with the 3-Day Novel contest come the first weekend of September, so I guess this is good practice.

Writing off Saturday

So let’s see…what did I do today? If this gets at all rambly or incoherent, I apologize. I appear to have ingested the world’s entire supply of caffeine.

I woke up around eight o’clock this morning and realized something: while I had packed copies of Kaleidotrope‘s latest issue into envelopes last night for contributors and subscribers, I had neglected to do the same for the couple of people who had so far bought copies of this issue alone. So I got up out of bed and addressed a few more labels, and then about an hour later I was at the post office mailing them all out.

It’s funny how they recognize me at the local post office, but seem to forget the reason they recognize me is that I’m the crazy one mailing out multiple packages both hither and yon, two or three times a year, often with dozens of envelopes in hand. Today I had far fewer packages, since this issue has only three contributors total, and I haven’t really pushed to increase my subscribers in several months, what with the upcoming move to becoming a webzine and all.

Although, seriously, if you haven’t bought a copy yet, or have let your subscription lapse, please do check this issue out. Or consider donating. I’m paying contributors a cent a word in 2012, so every little bit helps.

After the post office, I went to get a haircut, then went to the bank, then bought some allergy meds, then went back to the post office to drop off an envelope for my mother. (Hey, any excuse to walk past those charming folks outside with the Obama-in-Hitler-mustache posters again, right?) And then I spent the bulk of the day writing. And I do seriously mean the bulk of the day.

There was some goofing off involved, including an episode of Enterprise on Netflix, but I spent most of today working on a short story I’ve got percolating. It all started about a week ago when I was reading a story submitted to Kaleidotrope and noticed a striking similarity between the story’s opening sentence and this past winter’s prompt for The First Line. The wording was slightly changed, and I didn’t call the author on it — there’s no harm at all in submitting a story somewhere else if the first venue passes — so I don’t know for sure if that’s where the story originated. But I noticed it because I, too, had submitted a story for that issue and had also been rejected. And it got me thinking, “hey, I haven’t visited their site recently. I wonder what the prompts are for their upcoming issues.”

Oh, if only I’d done that several weeks earlier. Because the current first line — “Edwin spotted them the moment he stepped off the train.” — got into my brain something fierce and suggested a story, which I’ve been struggling to finish ever since. And the due date, of course, for this Fall 2011 issue is August 1.

So I’m going to make a mad rush to finish it tomorrow. I did this sort of thing earlier this month for another deadline I probably should have known about earlier, and it seemed to work. That story might very well still get rejected, but I’m proud of it, and moreover proud of finishing it. This story is a little less tied to a particular venue, and would be easier to rework if The First Line rejects it or if I can’t finish by August 1. But I really want to finish it in time. I’m a little nervous I’ll let it languish if I miss the deadline.

Either way, this is all probably a good mental workout for the 3-Day Novel Contest, for which I finally signed up. Heather ultimately convinced me, both by signing up herself and by clever use of ALL CAPS in her suggesting it. And it is the project I said I would be working on in my application to the Banff Centre, so it probably doesn’t hurt to make good on that promise. It still seems like a bit like madness, for which I might need the rest of my stay there just for recovery. But a crazy deadline does do wonders for one’s focus.

Gotta get down on Friday

It was a quiet day, if you forget the annoyingly loud construction/demolition going on all around the building. But, thanks to summer hours, the office largely clears out around one o’clock, and I think even the work crews outside took the rest of the afternoon off.

Not a whole lot planned for the weekend, beyond mailing out copies of Kaleidotrope’s new issue and trying to do some writing.

A case of the Mondays

Today was a Monday, and boy was it ever!

Although it did get down to about 70 degrees, which was nice after the past few days of the sun trying to kill us where we stand. That didn’t make the subway cars I took to and from work today any less uncomfortably crowded, however.

But I had an idea for a short story and started working on it tonight. I’m not sure if the fact that the deadline for submitting it is August 1 is a good or a bad thing. It got me motivated last time, so we’ll see.

Sunned day

Not a very exciting Sunday. I did the crossword puzzle, I went to see the new (and solidly entertaining) Captain America movie, and I wrote this, whatever it is:

“The world you know doesn’t exist,” said Sergeant Bearney to the troops lined up just outside the mess hall. “Not anymore.”

It was his standard spiel; Marcus and I had both heard it a dozen times, and there was no point in hanging around now to guess at which of the recruits would be the first to argue with him, or break formation, or just plain break down. Somebody always would. God knows Marcus had. I tried not to kid him too much about it anymore — it could have been anybody in that month’s batch of recruits, myself included — but I knew he was glad to finally be out from under Bearney’s thumb and into the comparative ease of daily combat. The Vargash will rip you to shreds, color the ground with your blood, but those two weeks with Bearney, those were hell. After that, fighting the invaders is like a walk in the park.

Not that there’s any such thing as parks anymore.

We didn’t have time to stand around gawking, though. If any of these recruits wanted to argue the point with Bearney, wanted to act all homesick for a world that had been burned away while we were all in deep freeze, so be it. Let the bastard deal with it like he always had. “I lived through the invasion, you maggots,” he’d tell them, maybe even briefly show them the deep curling scars along his midsection that the Vargash weapons had left him in the first failed counter-assault. “Some of us didn’t get to sleep through it in cryo, so quit your bawlin’.” And then he would get on with the process of turning these newly awakened rubes into soldiers. Eight months into the program now, a new group of conscripts every couple of weeks, whatever the cryo facilities could supply, and he hadn’t lost a single one. Every one he trained went on to die someplace else.

Well, except for me and Marcus, I guess, but we were different. Even Bearney would have had to reluctantly admit it. We’d been in that first group, before they had worked all the kinks out of resuscitation, and not everything had gone according to plan.

Right now, we were supposed to be meeting with Kincaid in the mess hall to discuss the…

I didn’t quite get to finish, even that sentence, before our standard forty minutes of free-writing were up and we had to go see the movie.

Anyway, that was Sunday.