Category Archives: Tiny Violins

I’m sick but I’m happy.

Today was the first time in over a week that I wrote anything.

It was another snippet of a scene for TV, and it was pretty interesting to write.

I knew there was a reason Stroud didn’t want to see the Tainted in the Barrens, and I knew it wasn’t because he was scared of her. After all, The Tainted are still effectively under Greenwood rule.

And then I was day dreaming while lying in bed trying to recuperate and I realised just exactly why Stroud didn’t want to talk with any of the Tainted, even if it wasn’t Kay Lin.

Oh, well that makes perfect sense, I thought.

And so I put it in.

Also, now that I’ve decided it’s unpublishable and I only have to write it for me, I can put in whatever I want. 😀

Once I’m done with this I think I’ll work on a stand-alone.  Perhaps I can rewrite Dream and Bone as a YA? And what if I make Nina as important as Richard? That could be cool. 😀

Slacker cat is a slacker

Wordpress just ate my post so I am full of grrr right now.

It was witty and articulate and interesting.

Okay, no it wasn’t, but it could have been if I’d wanted it to.

Actually it was just me wangsting about my inability to make phone calls or email people because I have communication issues.

And then I was full of happy because thanks to my super-awesome betas I think I’ll have Tiny Violins down soon.

Also, I should probably tell my agent at some point that I’ve kinda unexpectedly written an adult sequel to the YA she’s currently shopping.

And we’re back full circle to my inability to email people.

I blame my mother, yes?

eta: oh and I totally forgot, but this is my new opening. Love it, hate it, poke it with kebab sticks – it’s all one to me.

Fuck magic.

No, really – fuck that shit with a fucking cordless drill.

It skitters through the air; an electric pulse that echoes the boom from the club’s speakers. The unexpectedness of it is so jarring that I look up from my turntable, my hands shaking.

Blah Blah Blah

There is a fly in the lounge and it keeps buzzing into MY FACE AND MAKING ME GRRRR.

Yeah.

So the Dearly Beloved Betas have Tiny Violins…

*wangsts*

If anyone else has the urge to beta (and yes – there will be boys not-saving each other with their not-love – it is a Rain book, after all) then give me a shout.

And I am crawling through Neuromancer because of the cat-piss fragrance wafting from its yellowed pages. Am beginning to wonder if Demonic Cat is not perhaps some kind of literary critic.

Okay taking a break from my beta-ing of the wonderful PS, and going back to the wee wee book.

Give me my goddamn Bloody Mary now

As a failed artist, I’m always jealous of what other people can do. Go have a look at Amanda Palmer’s latest blog post for some wonderful photography (among other things). My favourite is the pic of Zoe.

Further proof that I am a sprog-corrupter, and that one day I will be paying for all their therapy.

Cat is at the computer, says: “I need another cigarette, dammit!”*

In the background, wee sprog voice pipes up with “Janet!”

Fueled on by vodka and nicotine, The Whine Of Tiny Violins Dogs Me Through My Morose Existence Of Moroseness now sits at just over 50k. Sweet sweet creamy awesomesauce is mine.

And as for New Year’s Resolutions, I still haven’t made any, so I resolve to give that up as a bad job.

* Yes, I announce these things, this despite the fact that my box of fags is sitting right at my elbow.

In the corner wearing my dunce-cap.

So today I sat myself down and gave myself a stern talking to.

“Cat,” I said. “I realise you think it’s holidays, but it’s not really. Not for the likes of you anyway. ” Then I carefully steered myself back to my computer, opened up my WiP and pointed at the abysmal word count. “See that?” I tapped the screen. “It just won’t do, I’m afraid. Now, either you pull your socks up, or I’m going to have to pull them up for you.” I paused to let the thought sink in. “And we don’t want that, now do we?”

No indeed, we do not.

1267 words have now been cranked out.

Now I think I’m going to go pick gooseberries and make jam.

I have an ending

Yes!

I love it when the final words come to me, and solve all the weird plot threads that have been copulating and breeding.

Now, only 22k to reach the end bit.

Hmm…this is the painful part, I think, but I’m over the worst hump  so I know I can do it. Somehow. Gotta trust the book.

It amuses me to think that one day people might write fanfic making Irene and Rain a happy straight OTP.  I’d be tempted to read it just to see the logic.

The soundtrack for Tiny Violins grows longer by the day.  I now have:

Placebo – Protege-moi

The Cure – 10:15 Saturday Night

NIN – Into The Void

Dead Can Dance – I am Stretched On Your Grave

Thom Yorke and PJ Harvey – This Mess We’re In (which I think I may have used in BW, so will probably have to go. I don’t feel like looking at BW ever again, so I’m not checking until I have to.)

Massive Attack – Protection

Tricky – Overcome

…and at some point, another remix of Protection.

anyone have some suitable trip-hop, synthy, angsty, indie songs to add to the list?

Also, any Nirvana song, but I’m leaning toward the more sad and out of place accoustic-ness of the unplugged album (yeah, I know. Shut up.)

How To Write A Book

I’m not exactly sure why I do writing posts, as there is so much information out there from learned professionals, but hey, I need some way to untangle the mess of plots and words and stuffs in my wee cat brain.

I have entirely generic writing habits. No special snowflake insights here, ma’am.

Basically, I pants things until I have a more or less solid grip on my characters and the germs of plot ideas. Then I sit and scribble out options, ideas, possible plot noodles, and occasionally, if Small Brain can face it – some kind of ending. After I’ve had a good squizz at the sheer amount of work waiting for me, I sit down and weep into my coffee.

Like a tragic, doomed something-or-other.

Not a princess, because I don’t think princesses sit at their computers in their ratty pjs drinking cold coffee and waiting for inspiration or a good simulacrum thereof.  (Also, small grubby sprogs don’t tug at their clothes waving lego things at them in the hope that mommy will suddenly remember that she has spawned children, and must therefore feed them occasionally.)

Actually my writing day goes pretty much like this.

First I bribe myself to open the doc. “C’mon Cat,” I say “Just 250 words. Even you can do that. 250 words, and then I won’t tell the world what a horrible failure you are.”

The threat of my loserdom being exposed – on the internet, no less – tends to spur me into at the very least opening my doc and looking at what I last wrote.

Depending on the state of said words, I either need to get a new coffee because the current cold cup has also gone all salty, or I run around the room shrieking with joy at my amazing genius. Then I tap out a few words, and tell myself to stop being such a git and to just bloody get on with it, okay.

For every line I write, I repeat those actions.

Being a writer must be one of the most bi-polar careers on earth.

“My work is brilliant, I shall change not a jot nor tittle omg I suck great hairy donkey bollocks and everything I’ve ever written should be burnt burnt burnt oh wow this is a pretty nifty line look how awesome I am dear god how did I manage to fool someone into repping me what the hell is this tripe?

Etcetera.

Etcetera.

Every time I’m ready to quit and become a secretary, I just have to remind myself that I’m insane.

This technique has helped me write well over four sentences at a time.

For anyone attempting nano, I urge you to try it.

Daily progress:

The Whine Of Tiny Violins: 21 759/50 000

mean things: Making Rain go visit mommy dearest

stuff wot i liked: The door swings open even as I pull my finger away from the intercom. Lily looks smaller, grey, her hair in dry wisps around her face. Instead of frightening and evil – like a witch from the stories – my mother looks old and frail. I swallow.

“Irene,” she says, looking past me. “I felt you come back.”