The Journal of Michael Merriam

I wrote almost 1300 words last night in just over two hours. I typed and typed and could not stop. I thought it was going well, and I turned the computer off and went to bed feeling good about the whole thing.

Then I read it this afternoon and realized it was pretty much crap.

Actually, crap is probably too nice a word.

I did manage to salvage about two paragraphs worth of useful prose from the wreckage, so it wasn't a complete waste. The rest I dropped onto a document I keep for text that I've written for Move Along Home, but haven't actually used for one reason or another.

Reasons like, say, it's crap.

But 1300 words of crap at least got me moving again, and today, despite my incessant cat vacuuming, I managed to write about 900 words of not-crap, which I suspect will, after editing, work out to be about 700 words of usable text.

I'll take that.

In other news, the SF Writer's Meetup was last Sunday at Betsy's Back Porch on the corner of Nicollet and Diamond Lake Road. The group seemed more at ease and relaxed with each other, and we had a new person join us. It is always nice to meet other writers.

Where were you? Yes, you. You know who you are. I didn't see you there. Shame on you.

Anyway, careswen and I plan to go to the Speculations Reading at Dreamhaven's in October, so I expect to meet more of my tribe at that worthy event.

Well, back to the novel.

In Peas

Michael