…or why my novel has been languishing.

I was surprised out how drastically my productivity has dropped since Tiptoe was born.  Herein, I catalog the creative and personal deficiencies with which I find myself currently afflicted.

I gained between five and eight pounds during the time that Tiptoe entered the hospital (December 20) to the time she was realeased on February 6.  I blame a lot of this weight gain on hospital food, and on extended periods of doing nothing by standing by Tiptoe’s bedside, rocking her, or staring blankly at hospital walls.  I’m doing my darndest to change my eating habits back to salad and cut out sweets entirely.  It’s very difficult.

I was surprised how little writing I got done in the hospital.  There were long hours where I did nothing at all; why didn’t I engage the novel?  I’m not sure; I feel like I just didn’t have the energy for it.  That has changed, significantly, thank goodness.  I’m back on the wagon, huzzah!

Despite being back on the wagon, it’s still tough to get the words flowing.  It’s work, now; work that I love, but it is hard, harder than I think I’ve ever had it before.  I think there are a number of contributing factors; the weight gain is certainly one of them.  When I feel good, I write well.  There’s the constant nagging worry about Tiptoe; and the fact that she’s acting like a normal child now, meaning I’m getting a max of about 4-6 hours of sleep a night.

I don’t remember it being this difficult with the other 4.  I think that’s a function of evolution– we’re genetically programmed to forget how tough newborns can be, so that we keep having them.  A combination of sleep deprivation, monotonous, seemingly meaningless activity, decreased external input, poor food, lack of opportunity for personal growth…

:gasp:  Babies are like cult leaders!  Little charismatic bundles of charm, who nonetheless devour your soul, and then throw up on you!

🙂

At any rate, Tiptoe is charismatic.  (Someone– an RPG’er– once showed me a onesie that had “STR:1; CHA: 20”  That about sums it up)

’nuff complaining.  Here’s an excerpt of the new beginning to The Lord of All Fools.

From Haight Street to Barrister, Nanston burned.  Charles Ograhim caught his breath at the top of the hill, and looked over the city.  His city, his Nanston.  Broken buildings, like black, jagged teeth, scraped against the haze and smoke.  Charles blinked and coughed.  Where Banger’s Sundries had been, there was only a crumbling wall.  The Bushner Building was a mess of timbers and rubble.  Rags that had once been curtains fluttered from the empty window sockets of Victoria Cornish’s boarding house, and glass speckled the street in front of her porch.  A hole in the roof yawned at the gray sky.

Three weeks ago, he’d taken supper with Victoria and her daughter.  Three weeks ago, there’d been spring pansies in the window boxes. The rags of Victoria’s curtains waved as he stepped onto the porch, and the wood groaned.  He was too fat to go traipsing about in bombed out homes.  He was too old to go wandering about the streets.  Charles pushed the door open with the tips of his fingers; the door squeaked and suddenly fell off its hinges, banging and clattering.  The noise echoed down the street and against the blackened walls.