I have spent the past few days locked in the windowless Inner Circle of Hell that is the Javits Center, helping man the SFWA booth for Book Expo America.
And yes the reading horde (comprising of bloggers, librarians, publishers, various and sundry publishing-related folk, and General Readers) were unleashed upon us, and lo we did our best to feed the horde with free books, samplers, bookmarks, signings, and stickers. And they did, on the appointed hour, allow us to escape, wherein several of us headed for the traditional (or at least habitual) post-BEA Scotch.
And now I am dead.
I love you all but I don’t want to talk to anyone for at least 24 hours and I’m not going to smile or at least 48 more.
Meanwhile, work continues. I spent half an hour, last session, fixing two paragraphs. They’re incredibly important paragraphs, and I’m still not sure they’re sharp and layered enough, but for now it will do.
My favorite line from that section: “The wind whistles me up and down, and it tells me of the crackling of bones.”
Some days, this book fills me with despair, that it will never match my intentions. And then some days it glows darkly on the page, and I think I might just get it…