According to my stomach, I have flung myself off a cliff, which is how it feels to take off from this airport:
I took this photo during my days as a Himalayan earthquake geologist. The plane sinks before it’s lofted up from the canyon floor. Though even that ride is arguably less vomit-inducing than the way Russian cargo helicopters swoop through the valleys. It’s a tough call. Travel was always challenging for these field campaigns because it was during the height of the Nepali Civil War. We often had to shift locations quickly to avoid skirmishes between the Maoist fighters and government troops.
Anyway, I have a big day-job deadline in a week. It’s stressful and scary and has consequences, which is why I haven’t been blogging as much. I have been working on the new novel in drips and drabs. My progress looks more like thumbnail sketches–but in words–of scenes, very rough. But it’s progress. I’m realizing I need to do more research on energy. I have my biofuels worked out already, but I see technical challenges to the other power source I want to use in the book.
You know that writing advice that says you have to make time for your writing, and how having more time to write doesn’t translate into greater productivity? I’m skeptical. I mean, I get the point–if you really want to write, then stop watching TV or playing games or having a social life. Discipline, I have. But 70-hour work weeks wear a gal down.
One more week.
Here’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in awhile. I sent it to my husband as a guide for deciphering my tender writerly emotions. He appreciated it, I think.