![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
Catherynne M. Valente (a.k.a.
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
I'm working on this next chunk of A Reckoning of Men and also a Storytellers Unplugged post (since my slot is tomorrow and I missed last month) about Tombstone. It's kind of weird; I woke up this morning and (a.) I wanted to write and (b.) I had ideas. I brushed my teeth and took my pills and fed the cats with the background music in my head mostly being the wolf book.
I can't write very much in my head before I have to write it down; my memory doesn't retain long chunks of anything (this would be why I am one of the few Shakespeareans you will ever meet who cannot recite great wodges of Teh Bard off the cuff; I can't even manage an entire sonnet). But when things are going well (which they have not been for the past couple months), I will wander around wrestling with a sentence or two, maybe as much as an exchange of dialogue. Cleaning litter boxes is great for this, which frequently means I have to make cryptic notes to myself before I climb into bed. Because in the morning, I will remember that I had a good idea, but I will not remember what the idea was, and I hate that feeling with the burning fury of a thousand fiery suns.
So, yeah. It's spring outside; the daffodils are blooming, the apple tree is budding, and the rose bushes are starting to unfurl new green leaves. And it seems to be spring in here, too.