Remind me again

[mrissa]

Please remind me again: why do I write for adults?

I know, I know. Not all of my ideas are particularly YA. And the regular YA short story market is miniscule, and people have to ask you to write for anthologies, and so far they don't ask me. And I write enough that if I had spent all the time from Reprogramming and Thermionic Night and Sampo on YAs, I would have have at least five more YAs by now, which wouldn't help anybody in the slightest because the whole revision/submission/editing/publishing/whatever else process can only go so fast, and bouncing up and down threatening first readers/editors/agents/publishers with more books is not the way to make it go faster.

But I opened my file for the children's book I want to do next (in lieu of the fortuitous appearance of contractual obligations for other things), and it was so enticing and lovely and short and reasonable. (This is a chapter book, not a YA. Middle-grades. Etc. So even shorter than DBM.) And then I looked at Sampo, and I passed up 500 pages last week, and it's still not rough drafted yet, and I know I'll cut a bunch of that, but I'll add a bunch, too, and it's so big and grown-up and stuff, and I'm cranky anyway, due to still not having a voice for day four, and the cough is where timprov actually asked me last night if all my ribs are intact. And I'm not doing that again. The rib thing, I mean. I'm doing the cranky thing again, I bet, because these things happen, and I'm doing the writing for grown-ups thing again, for the above reasons and also because I'm stupid, but I refuse to break ribs coughing again, and that is that, and I just want everyone to notice that I have eaten a reasonable amount during this illness and not scraped by on a bare minimum and gotten shaky and weird-looking and perpetually cold, although I could do with a little lower body temperature just now, thanks verymuch.

Stupid brain making me write for grown-ups. Stupid body making me sick. Grouse grouse grouse.

Okay. I promise all of you a cheerful, Things That Make Me Happy Today entry before I go to bed tonight. It may be short, but the entirety of it will be happy things, and I will not cheat by making it into negatives of Things That Make Me Cranky like "not having this stupid cold" and "being able to sing songs" and "having this stupid book done." Okay? Okay.

Comments

[merriehaskell.livejournal.com]

Eep.

At least you're writing Sampo. I'm looking at the complicated adult project on my plate and going, "You know, the brainstorming's been fun, but I don't know if we can have a serious relationship. You just want too much from me!"

(sigh)

[ksumnersmith.livejournal.com]

Short and reasonable is good, but so is long and complex. I like your stupid brain that makes you write for grown-ups.

But by no means may you crack your ribs by coughing. Not allowed! (Though I am worried that that Mary Gentle book may try to break a few of your bones. That sucker is *big*. And complex. Which proves my earlier point ... sort of.)

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

Hmmmmmmm. And you say that even knowing that if I'm writing more YAs, it means I get to The Mark of the Sea Serpent sooner, right?

I am leaving 1610 for when I'm not doing most of my reading horizontal. This is what paperbacks are made for. Well, one thing, at least.

[pameladean]

Oh dear, I'm sorry that the Picnic Cold is not leaving you as promptly as it should. Mine is doing a Minnesota Goodbye with my tonsils, but is clearly almost ready to get out the door.

Pamela

[ksumnersmith.livejournal.com]

And you say that even knowing that if I'm writing more YAs, it means I get to The Mark of the Sea Serpent sooner, right?

Oh. Right. Okay, forget everything I said earlier. Clearly you must focus on writing YA fiction only. Boo, hiss, who likes grown-up novels anyway?

I am leaving 1610 for when I'm not doing most of my reading horizontal.

Good! My copy of Ash (which looks like your copy of 1610, only yellow and gold ... and, you know, with completely different text inside) near smothered me once when I tried to read it while lying down.

[mrissa.livejournal.com]

Mine has settled in to play pinochle or perhaps cribbage, I'm afraid. Rook, maybe.

I've promised my mom and my aunt that if it's no better tomorrow, I'll go to the doctor and see what she says. I don't expect to be entirely skipping around well tomorrow, but I'm hoping for better.