I was doing pretty well with The Great Weapons, I thought. I'm not talking about the quality of the writing; I really have no way of evaluating that until long after it's done. I'm really just talking about moving forward, about having my mind deep in the story, and -- as a result -- about Getting Things Done.
So I was doing pretty well. I'd been making steady progress, and even when I tripped myself up I was able to go back and correct it with a different version of the scene. It was a lot like how writing used to be for me, when I was younger: I knew where I wanted to go, it was just a matter of figuring out the best way to get there.
And then, after that, I just sort of... ran out. This happens to me with depressing regularity. I had a lot going on at work (I still do, may the dark gods preserve me); I had a lot going on at home (ditto); and I've been hugely tired for something like five straight weeks now, when I wasn't busy being sick instead. And yet, my interest in the story has persisted.
It's even persisted through the last... What has it been, a week? ...of being too tired and too stressed out to write. This isn't completely unprecedented, but it's been a couple of decades since I've had one really stick with me like that.
All of which is a very long way of saying that, just for a change, I actually am coming back to this. Right now, if I can manage it.
For those who are curious about such things, I usually write while listening to music. For this story I've been cycling through three albums from Diabulus In Musica, which appears to be a symphonic metal band from Spain: Argia (their newest), The Wanderer, and Secrets. If you like that sort of thing, give 'em a listen.