Eh . . . . crap.
In my last entry I said I was challenging myself to do a multiple set of tasks for the year. With one of them getting something ready for perusal by an agent whom I would sit down with in June at a writer's conference. Well, that's not happening.
Thank you, Covid19.
One tiny, microscopic, teeny-weeny little virus has, for all practical purposes, shut down the entire world. Truly astonishing. The cities business districts are ghost towns. The streets of many cities across the world are literately empty concrete ribbons populated only by past memories. Shopping malls look like drunken derelicts sleeping it off in someone's back alley.
Well, buddy. I'm here to tell you. I never want to hear anyone tell me the little guy hasn't a stripped-ass chance in this world. If a fricken' virus can shut down the world . . . !
On the other hand.
The problem is, well, the basic premise is interesting. I've got currently 102 pages done. I'm not happy with it. But on the other hand, I don't want to throw it away yet. So what the hell do I do with it? I dunno.
Stay tuned . . .
Oh. By the way. The other goal I sat for myself about the piece of fantasy writing which might remind you of Homer's 'The Illiad?' Christ, what a bitch that one is! Actually, the style of writing is more akin to Shakespeare than to Homer. But trying to write Shakespearean is a slow, slow, SLOW process. Twisting sentence constructions around with odd word-play is a tedious experiment. When accomplished, and going back to read it, it sounds lyrical. Almost like a ballad. But writing the damn thing is like pulling gall stones out of your ass with a pair of tweezers.
Yeah, I know . . . I know. I'm just up on my bitchin' box stand hollering into the abyss.
I'll feel better tomorrow.