writing rengeek magpie mind

July 2014



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writing gorey earbrass conscious but ver

The Creative Process, or: How to write a novel.






Put it back on your desk.





Decide you don't like that either.


Try tempera paint this time.

Hmm. Better.





Start shingling the roof with pine cone scales.

Realize they clash with the sequins.





In the back.

Where nobody will ever see it.



Hmm. Maybe maple helicopters?





Borrow the skillsaw again.



Ask for a skillsaw for the holidays.






Tuck some sphagnum moss into it, just to be sure.

And a tiny silk rose.

Realize it's done.








Hey, it dries clear. Nobody will ever know.









And maybe a pub next door, God willing.




--E. Bear.


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*fangirl swoon!*

err... *cough*

*fanboy swoon!*

Realize you've reached a point where you can understand this post.
Be thankful.
This is wonderful. Thank you.
Brilliant - the perfect "how to" guide on process.
Yes, yes, yes!

Must get back to my tempera paint, now...
WOW. Your metaphor greatly resembles a literal description of my years in architectural graduate school. Including the trashing of the models at the end, and the saving of little bits of their remains. I used a hammer, however, so the bits don't smell.
As reader, I want to thank all of the writers who do this regularly so we can have BOOKS! I, for one, am glad to have that part of my life over with. Not the life for me.
This is beautiful.

The bit that really puts a lump in my throat is the next time you do it, when you have to start with your popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue in full knowledge of where you're going to end up, and that you have to start at the beginning anyway cause there's no shortcut.
thank you for sharing that.

"Martha, My Dear", the last section, is another vine description of craft trance. By some coincidence or synchronicity, it was on the radio this morning.
Wow. Brilliance and melancholy and beauty and an explanation that makes so much sense. It's solid and fragile at the same time.

There aren't enough of the right words in this language for my feelings.

You are the niftiest person I know. :)
Thank you.

You are pretty darn nifty, too.

Maple helicopters! Yes!

You've got a camera hidden in my damn office, don't you?
And his is why I follow the livejournals and blogs of writers. While a picture maybe worth a thousand words, a thousand words does not always a portrait make. In the hands of someone who knows what they are doing, however, those thousand words conjure up far more than just one picture, and indeed a painter would have a hard time keeping up.

Thank you.
Too often I read of authors alphabetizing thier spice cabinets, or contents of their 'fridges. This seem so much better, but the pony...(wailes)

Welcome Home Dearest Girl.
Blame fadethecat for me being here.
Though I hope you don't mind me standing here with my mouth gaping open, alternately wanting to giggle and awwww.
That was a delightful read. Thank you for sharing it. I feel similarly about programming.
Fandangous! Bricolaging [bricolazhing?] bricolage.
A. This is beautiful.
2. I am very, very sad about the fire.
e^pi*i. You can has pony?
It's not a story until there's a fire, though. It's just a model.

making stuff as the force that propels

thank you

you have just described, as cleanly as anyone ever has, why I make stuff. also why I am never .quite. done with the making. I had never thought of setting it all on fire as performance before.
This might just be my stressed-out over-emotional talking, but you made me cry with the tiny silk rose.

Damn you.
I found this extremely reassuring. I find the fact that I found it reassuring mildly disconcerting. But I think I worked out why, and I'm back to reassured.

Thank you (once again) for your blog.
Add me to the list of those who gave tears for the tiny silk rose.

I've cried during each of your novels (frequently, while on public transport. You think I'd know better by now.) But I don't think I've ever cried for anyone's LJ post.
This is a thing of beauty. Thank you.
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