Where is my brain?

It's odd. I finished the new Sarah Tolerance draft last week. I've put it in a drawer to think about itself and so my own brain could air out. I immediately started work on a short story that I owe to an anthology. I fired my old agent and hired a new one. I did the Book VIew Café accounting for the quarter. I've been grooming the Nebula nominations list (for those who have no idea what I'm talking about: nominating is done on line, and the nature of the list is that the same book entered differently--mis-spelled or in quotes or with an extra space somewhere--will appear as a separate nomination. So I have to go in every couple of days and weed out the duplicates). I've been, in short, a busy little bee. Yet, weirdly, I feel disconnected and unfocused. I should be thinking about revisions to ST3 (and in fact, to The Salernitan Women, which I'm hoping to get a revisions letter about soon). I need to start research and mapping on the next book, which I think/hope may be the contemporary fantasy* set in San Francisco. I'm actually kind of a excited about all these things.

And yet, I can't quite bring any of them into focus. Maybe I need more coffee. Or less coffee. More yoga. Less internet. Just scolding myself and saying "dammit, woman, focus" is remarkably ineffective.

Feh.



*urban fantasy seems to have become something this isn't. Sigh.

Return of the Wandering Cerebellum

Cut or switched around a bunch of stuff from "The Boy Who Played Air Guitar" (the short story I'm working on) and added 1300 brand new words. It's rough, still, but I'm seeing the form hidden in the alabaster.