A Profound Revelation

(ok, the scary thing is I’ve learned to spell that without looking) says she’s going to try to back off, relax a little, revise, and use the breathing time I’ve bought myself by working like a bloody lunatic since 2001 to fall in love with some of my new stuff before I have to write it.

Shortly before I read that, I was saying to Ted that I hated starting new books, because unless I’d been struck with inspiration and really really really wanted to write it RIGHT NOW it was, y’know, work. You had to think a lot and face the fact that what you were writing was probably going to be crap and in another 30,000 words you were going to have to go back and rewrite it all anyway because hey, it’s crap.

Having had three books fall out of my schedule I’ve been staring at what’s left and thinking something to the effect of, “OMG, the world will end if I don’t fill all this free time up with 356398707 NEW BOOKS!” Nevermind that sitting down to start a new book is making me … well. Sit there and do nothing at the computer, is mostly what it’s doing. It’s not that I can’t do it, it’s that I’m not particularly excited about doing it. It’s a marked contrast from working on Chance (though, mind you, my enthusiasm for that is from the work other people are doing right now–please note my to-do list still contains writing the fourth script). It’s *work*, not fun, which is not bad, because y’know, this is my day job. But somewhere along the line, I lost track of the idea that it might be a lot more *fun* to write if I didn’t have 356398707 new books to write next year. Ebear reminded me of that.

*clutches head* What a concept.

So I’ve just gone through my schedule and cleared it of all the I’d-like-tos and the if-I-do-this-I’ll-be-aheads. I took out the scheduling for revising ANGLES. I took out tentative NNWMs for writing sequels to ANGLES. I took out CAULDRON BORNE, because it’s not contracted for yet. I put those things into the speculative side of the schedule, and took a look at what was left on the actual schedule.

I have one book due next year.

After _five_ this year. _Instead_ of five next year.

One.

There’s another one due in early 2008, so that’s two books to write, more or less, in 2007, but there is only _one_ actually due right now.

This is not a sign of the world coming to an end. It may be a sign for my brain to go FWOOSH from a release of pressure, but it’s not the world coming to an end. It is *not necessary* for me to fill up this time with another thirteen thousand books.

It is also not the time to actually give in to the illusion that the pressure is off. The Bombshells went away, which took so much pressure off the top of this thing that suddenly it seems like I should have free time before these last couple things this year are due, so a big old cushion has poofed up and is blithely ignoring the fact that my schedule is radically altered for *next* year, not this year. I still have an absolute fuckload to do before the end of 2006.

…but I think I might take eBear’s advice, and go read a mystery novel.