One morning I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote down every conjecture or assumption I could think of concerning the novel as a genre. Probably took me thirty minutes. That week I had several bouts of inspiration in which I was able to make notes, actual, useful, convertible notes, on what I was thinking and reading. I hope that sort of inspiration will come back soon, because somehow in the last week and a half I have lost it. I can hardly tell I think at all, except these thoughts keep coming. Today after some weeks of exercising discipline I engaged in a television glut, as if the shows I hadn't been watching were going somewhere: Castle, Warehouse 13, The Lying Game. I finally dropped Eureka from my queue because after the first couple of episodes of those aired in the last two months, the show lost all appeal for me.
For inspiration I shall begin listening to Writing Excuses again. I adore their slogan: Fifteen minutes long, because you're in a hurry, and we're not that smart. Their podcasts actually vary in length. I make that observation based on listening to two of them, their first episode ever, and one more recent one. The podcasts, I believe, are geared toward the writing of science fiction, which is fun, but most of their advice is applicable to other efforts. Writing Excuses. Now there's an idea.
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