I just finished the first 1/4 of this round of revisions on the now-untitled YA fantasy I’ve been working on for the past four years (now-untitled because the title that it had had since the very beginning suddenly became the wrong title and the right one has not yet emerged). I am eating celebratory ice cream: coffee and French vanilla. Yum.
Technically, I suppose I should be eating something fifteenth century-ish, if I wanted to be getting into the spirit of things. But they some really weird things at that point and I think I’ll enjoy my ice cream more.
I realize that I’ve hardly ever talked about writing here. This is mostly because 1) I’m shy and don’t like talking about things that mean a lot to me and 2) I’m still feel like I’m flailing around desperately wondering what I’m doing, and who really wants to read about that? But I may, cautiously, be posting a bit more on this.
I’ve been reading books from my bookshelves. Now, I’m a compulsive re-reader and as I build up my library, it’s not that strange for me to read a few books a month from my own shelves. But I’ve been on a blitz recently, which doesn’t often happen. I feel my TBR pile glaring at me balefully from the corner, all of the library books saying, “You know, you have to return me eventually.” At the moment, though, I’m entirely burnt out on pretty much ALL of my library books. They all seem like clever books, and I’m tired of clever books. I want books with heart, books that pick me up and wrap me in their world and don’t set me down until I’ve finished the last page. Maybe not even then. I know there are plenty out there, but I’ve been having a hard time finding new ones recently, hence the spate of re-reading. Feel free to make suggestions, although a quick browse through my Goodreads account, to make sure I haven’t already read it, might be a good idea.