Finished the chapter on Kima’s pregnancy yesterday, and wrote a really weird little squib about Michel and his time in Montréal.
At the last minute of the the children in the story crawled up and said, “But wait there’s more!” and it will all feed in to the rest of the plot, so I’m happy. And there are parts of it that are surpassing weird, and a couple of really funny lines.
But I feel weird today. When I’m writing really hard I feel altered. Not bad, just not quite seated in the detent, ifn you know what I mean.
“Baroque kitchen sink feminist sf with hard sf pretentions”. Still trying to work on the perfect phrase to get people to want to read it.
