I've been getting down to revisions on The Winter of the Earth over the last almost-a-week. Currently I am at original + 4,000 words. The aim of original + 9,000 certainly looks reasonable now, or at least I should be able to get close enough. Whether adding 9,000 words just before and during the climax of the novel will turn out to be a good thing... well, I'm not going to worry about that yet. When I've got the words written I'll see how the book is balanced.

I'm not someone who much likes revising stories, but adding to this one has been surprisingly easy, far easier than starting a new story. Living in a book this long makes everything flow well. At least, I'm telling myself this at the moment.

Writing agent-requested revisions is exciting. There's always something at stake when you're writing, but not that much; if something doesn't work out, you can always write something else. Here we're at a make or break stage. If I do this well, the agent might agree to represent me and there would be a good chance of getting published with a good publisher. If I don't, I'll be back to square one. It's like eating chilli, painful, invigorating and addictive. Oh yeah, and it's probably not good for your brain.

#
No time for any other writing-related activities at the moment. I suppose this is a good thing as I'd sworn of short stories for a while, but damnit, I'm having the urge to write the blasted things.

I will compromise by sending out some finished stories that have been sitting around taking up space.


We had a good time visiting my mother last weekend, even though it was a bit more of a rushed visit than I would have liked. We both took it very easy and got in some of that relaxing stuff that always gets forgotten about otherwise. Why do I always feel so guilty taking time off?