Jul. 23rd, 2006

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Or millimetering?


Anyway, I just finished the second to the last chapter in Afterwar. I have 90,175 words. The last chapter is a short one. It's the referendum, and I may decide, based on how the chapter I just wrote came out, that the referendum chapter is de trop (which would mean that I have a draft right now, especially considering the last line of this chapter, which is pretty purple and I think I mean that in a good way). Not long ago I was worried that the book wasn't going to break 80K. It turned out I had munged the master document and a long chapter wasn't in the master, which meant that it didn't get counted. Since I rarely open the master and go into the chapters from there, I just didn't notice until I was doing some revision task.

I've been preparing a glossary. I think the words are well scaffolded within the text, but I know that some readers like glossaries, so I've been making them whenever I do any worldbuilding.

Lately I've been noticing a whole lot of different ranunculus relatives and I wish I knew their names.

It looks like I've been letting the garden go this summer as I work on the Europe trip and cleaning out the house and, mostly, have quiet vegetative breakdowns.
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I saw a bunch of things on the beach that I think I ought to have known, but I don't. I took a bunch of pictures of them, and we even cut one open, deciding that they were probably already dead (naturally I'm a little worried that they weren't and that we unnecessarily killed some creature who might even be endangered).

lookity. what the hell is it? )
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Which is better?  This first one:

1. From the plane the land looked unscarred by long years of war, a great lustrous animal supporting the symbiont cities, fields, and parkland, pulsing with clean, new, intelligent roads, the tiny vehicles on them like the cells in a person's veins. But the scars existed still, subtle small ones and shocking big ones. Some injuries are slow to heal: others maybe never heal.

The little group -- five, counting Pablo's son who never knew anything of the war or its aftermath -- stepped tentatively out of the plane into the warmth of a day destined to be hot. None of them had been here in a very long time, and the place was unrecognizable. This little airport, for example, was only five years old, and had not even been a wistful hope when they were here before. Pablo detached himself from the group and approached one of the staff, an earnest, clear-eyed young man, and asked the way to Maris camp. "I heard there's a bus that goes there," he said.

 Or this second one?

2.Very likely they would not return to Maris after this one last time. The place was unrecognizable anyway. It looked unscarred by the long years of war: from the plane an observer could certainly not pick Maris out from the fertile land, crossed by clean, new, intelligent roads and the symbiotic vehicles that ran on them. But down there, the scars existed still, small subtle ones and shocking big ones. Some that would never heal, maybe.

The little group -- five, counting Pablo's son who had never seen the war's aftermath -- stepped tentatively into the early warmth of a day destined to be hot. Pablo detached himself from the group and approached one of the staff. "How do we get to Maris Camp?" he asked. "I heard there's a bus that goes there."





It's very exciting: I've decided where I will send Afterwar when I'm done, and I'm really close.

 

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