Very little to report this week. There is some potentially very fun stuff on the horizon, although that can't be spoken of just yet, but it does involve thylacines. Also it's been snowing this week in London - very rare event, all things taken into inclusion, and so I've been staring at the snow a lot.

I've been having trouble writing my novel, the Brocade Pirate's Goatbeard, for a couple of weeks now. (Really, since the middle of January.)

Sometimes when writing shorter works, while you have a goal and destination in mind, the path is blurred, and you kind of take it one small step at a time, but each step is onto new and unknown ground -- the writing is an exploration.

I tend not to work at lengths over about twenty thousand words very often, and a novel is considerably larger and more intimidating. What I seem to be doing is spending half an hour between each sentence weighing what I'm doing and struggling to work out where to put my foot so it is exactly on the path where I think I need it to be, so I don't find out in fifty thousand words I screwed up and need to go back and fix things.

In short, I'm not used to length.

(And I know several people who will laugh their heads off reading that.)

But yeah. It's another interesting challenge to try and deal with, writing-wise, along with all the other vagaries of life.

Crossposted from my blog at Sin is Beautiful.