. . . in two months; Jeff VanderMeer tells all.

Via Tom Nissley and Insty, who both point out that VanderMeer continued to blog during that high-productivity crunch. Personally, I find blogging to be so different from "real writing" that I rarely experience a conflict between the two.

Of course, I can also read after a day of writing, which my husband cannot: he's more likely to watch television. (Now he will tell you that I never spend the entire day writing, but that isn't true. I'm always writing. I'm just not necessarily getting it all down on paper. There's a distinction to be drawn there. Fruthermore, I can read to unwind after a day of proofreading, even while my eyes and my upper back ache from hunching over the same copy all day long, scouring eight-point type for boo-boos. I suspect this makes me a reprobate written-word-junkie, but I don't want to discuss it.)

What I cannot do when I'm infected with a piece of fiction is read much fiction, unless it's a short story here or there, or a quick re-read of something I've already read. If I'm fully immersed in my own world I have little desire to enter someone else's, so it has to be politics, pop culture, historical nonsense, theology, or philosophical whatnot. Something without a narrative arc, if you please.

Anyway, it's pretty fascinating stuff. It almost makes me want to print my work out and . . . send it around. Almost. But next thing you know, I'd be getting paid for it. That would make me feel dirty.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 05:45 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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