I am bouncing between The Hounds (the sequel to Talassio), the stand-alone novel which is currently code-named Tristan, and a short story that is coming out at the rate of 6 wph (words per hour). I think, with the latter, I’ve actually thought about it so much I feel like I should already be done with it . . . I did my usual blundering and tried to write it too soon and had three false starts; then I put it aside for some weeks; and now I feel like I know this, why isn’t it already on the page just right, why is it coming out so fitfully? An odd state of affairs, that one.
I had also forgotten, with The Hounds, just how complicated the opening is. Introducing five different threads that then converge . . . I was about to type bah, but let’s be honest here, it’s the kind of structural trickiness that gets me all hot and bothered. It’s not working yet, but oh! the joy of moving around the pieces, trying to make them interlock just right. I could do this for days; I even got up early to take another look at it. My back hates me right now, but the rest of me is enjoying this immensely, even as it makes me gnash my teeth at times.