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Writing

Last evening attempting to write and failing at it did much for me. For once, really doing it, I finally realize what I should do. I am too burdened by past stories, many novels, to write any more. Difficult as it may be, I want to apply myself to revising these completed novels to my satisfaction before even touching the unfinished novels, much less beginning a new one.

It has been on my mind for some time how many completed novels I have, and how all of them are unfit for human eyes-- Love's Shadow, Love's Image, Cymbeline, A Question of Honor, and Winter's Light, and the short stories, The Grove (lost presently), The Beekeeper, The Tower, Absinthe (also presently lost), and The Annunciation. And my two oldest, A Fragile Reverie and Winter Rose. I am starting to realize that with regard to revision and display, I can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear: nevertheless it gives me great pleasure to share my earliest work, whatever its flaws. Winter Rose was an attempt at Regency romance, Engel von Nacht influenced by the highly dramatic gothic novels of the 1700's I was into in high school, which Jane Austen scathingly parodies in "Love and Friendship" which I am presently reading.

Some old things I simply can't continue, others I can. But I won't have peace until I try.

By the way, I am exiled from the Internet for a week. If I like it, I may exile myself longer, perhaps for a month. Thanks to this Treo I may write in my weblog. Desktop entries will be sporadic and only when I send and receive email. I have determined that I am far from an Internet addict, but a piece of insight stuck with me: if it makes you feel lonely and depressed, then excise it from your life. Similarly, do without it and you will learn that you can. This encourages me in so many ways. Weirdly, I'm already contemplating all the things I'd love to say I can live without, or with little.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

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