I've been lax once again, and neglected my journal. I could use the excuse of wedding preparations (2 weeks and 3 days to go: panic? why?), but that wouldn't really be true. More likely is the lack of any writing progress to report.

I rather pathetically gave up on my pseudo-shadow-Clarion West challenge. I didn't much fancy pumping out a bunch of stories that probably wouldn't be that good, just to meet some artificial deadline. Also, I became despondant about the novel I was revising. Even with a near-complete rewrite, it wasn't as good as the stuff I'm writing these days, and if it's not as good, what's the point of wasting time on it?

Instead, I've decided to work on ideas for the next kids'/YA novel. Or, to be more accurate, series. See, I figure that I want to have a go at a series. I love reading series, if they're good, so I want to have a go at writing one. I want it to be for kids/YAs because I seem to be better at writing longer works for that age range and because each volume won't have to be so damned long. I also figure that what I'm writing for kids/YAs is more original and challenging than the novel-length plots I was coming up for adults. The challenge will be to keep the realism I've managed for the last two kids' novels while writing something that is both more of an adventure and more fun. Oh yeah, and I have to plot out a series of books instead of just one.

I've pretty much got the ideas for the first volume, in a vague outliney way, but I'm not totally sure where the series as a whole will go, how many books it will include, or any of the bigger picture. And I've been plotting it for a week. Jeez.

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Last weekend we drove out to Bolton Abbey, on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. Photos following whenever I can be bothered to upload them. We walked up Wharfdale for a few miles. It's an incredibly beautiful valley, with nature reserves, a river that is sometimes wide and placid, and sometimes fast over boulders. At one point, the entire river squeezes through a gap no wider than about 5 feet in a frightening torrent. Just peering down at "the Strid", as it is called (don't know why), was enough to make you know that if you fell in you wouldn't be coming out again.

Pretty much the rest of Yorkshire seemed to have decided that going there for the day was an excellent idea, so there were hundreds of people. We passed dozens of dogs, and Nika has never been so well-behaved as she was then. She hardly noticed them, whereas whenever she passes a dog on the leash near home she goes wild.

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Editors hate me again. Or, at least, they are choosing to ignore me. No responses for ages on any stories. I hate waiting. I know it's part of the game, but I still hate it. (Last time I complained about this, someone bought a story. Hint. Hint.)