Wednesday, March 03, 2004 I read Deborah Crombie's And Justice There is None for the SfSite, but since it has no fantasy, or SF, or even horror in it, I'll not be actually reviewing it. So I will say that I liked it; that Gemma is a pleasant and interesting investigator to hang out with, that the police procedural is well done, that I guessed who the killer was on page 406 of 436, just a few pages before it was revealed, (which is good) and that as a British detective novel it rates highly, making me rather relived since I've, for no reason I could tell you, have been collecting her books when I see them at library sales and have not read a one of them. I have a lot of books like that. It doesn't stop me from buying books, especially at library book sales. The other day I bought a slew of paperbacks that I will never get to, but cost me only .05 cents a peice. I don't want to pass them up, because I dearly want to read them and plan on doing so Someday When I Have Time. Since I don't plan on not being a reviewer any time soon I figure, sadly, Someday When I Have Time will come about the time when I am a Nerveless Old Hack Who Can No Longer Review Books Because She Repeats Herself. And so I buy books mostly by approximate guesses. I should be writing, but I'm doing the deer-in-the-headlights thing. I should be editing my girl & unicorn story. (Actually, it's called "What Do I Do Know That the Dream is Over?" but it's called girl and unicorn because that's what I neamed the file. I do this all the time, so that soemtimes people don't know what story I'm talking about. "The Fortunate Ones" is called Pixie after the fact that that's what one of the minor characters is, Diamond is the file name for "Every Word I speak", my take on the fairy tale where the girl spits up a diamond or a flower with ever word she says.) I should be writing on Water's Edge. Or writing some reviews so I can second draft them Saturday. But I'm all boggley and stopped and I can't seem to get started in any direction. Then I make things worse by getting mad at myself. "What kind of writer are you? No wonder you're not published, you have no drive." I manage, by the end of it, that the most I'm good at is hiding in my bed and reading (i.e., making more reviews to write) and pretending that the computer isn't over here, waiting expectantly. I look at other people's carreers. At the sheer amount of short stories, novels, articles, etc, that some people have written. And I wonder, is that my problem? Should I buckle down and produce, produce, constantly? But how do these people do it? Not just the time, but the quality? Bernard Corwell seems to write about two a year...a Sharpe's for spring, something else for fall. Andre Norton's list of books and such streatches for miles down the shelf. I'm not happy with anything I've done unless I get to go over it again months later...and even then, I've often re-editing things a year or so later...look at the time I spent re-editing both the books when I thought I was done and had already begun sending them out. Eh. If I keep thinking about this, I'll be wrecked for a week. The only answer, I suppose, is to keep plugging away. I did submit two reviews this week to Fantastica Daily. They're both up: White Devils, a creepy biotech thriller, and Alan Moore's Voice of the Fire, a novel where he tells the stories of twelve people who all live in North Hampton, through out the years, starting with a cave boy. My favorite story was the one told from the point of veiw of a skull that had been hung up on a wall. Permalink Cindy scribed this at 4:41 PM 0 comments

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