I'm up to 2k of what might become "Scorpion in Amber" - if that wasn't such a cheesy title, but this morning, that symbol showed up in my head and, hey, it's fantasy, and fantasy can be cheesy. Again I'm dealing with a soldier who has PTSD, and it's dark and brooding and pretty intense. So much for writing "lighter" stuff, but since some readers prefer me writing "dark", this is one for them. For others, it might be too much.
I'm slowly uncovering the bones of that project, a curve in the tone here, a guessed shape just under the surface, the mind, it works on where to dig and how and will it be a reptile, a bird or a mammal. I have no clue. Some stories need to be chiselled rather than hewn out, one hundred words at a time, sometimes less. It's likely NOT going to be novel-length, unless I finally find an external plot and the intrigue I want gets more complex. Right now, I have 2,200ish words, so that means, somehow, I wrote 1,300 words yesterday.
Sock Boy is his odious, odious self, taking my ideas, wrapping them up in four hundred words of badly-written blabber and then they go up as top stories on the website to hit a few thousand eyeballs a day. But that's OK, I know whose idea it is, even if I don't get even a byline. The editorial morals/manners/ethics in this place have hit rock-bottom and continue to dig. Hard and fast. I've given up on this place, so I only come here with an ironic/sarcastic smirk glued to my lips, and that's about it.
I told the Awesome Place that I won't be coming to their second interview since I already signed a contract with Other Place. I see in my inbox that there's a response from the guy who was going to interview me. I'm scared to open it. Funny, how I struggle coping with disappointing other people.
Okay, I got my colleague to read it. Urnkg. I could have gotten the job. Then again, that was my gut feeling, too.
I did 1,200 words yesterday. Whoot.