(no subject)

Last night I dreamt I was at a writing convention. In the dream I knew the people there, but the only ones I could recognize when awake were Shyamalan and Geoff Ryman. And the former makes sense, but I have no idea what Ryman is doing in my subconscious. Anyway, at some point we were walking outside the not-a-hotel* that was apparently located somewhere in overgrown brush-country and we found a lost child. The child never spoke, but through our amazing writerly deduction powers, we figured out that she'd (I think she, I can't really remember) been branded as a sacrifice by some local cult and left out to be taken. And by taking her in, we were interfering and were going to make something angry.

And then I woke up.

That makes Wiscon karaoke seem kind of tame.

And then I queried the market that's had my story for eight freakin' months, and am most eagerly awaiting a response.


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* It was cramped and made of cinderblocks and is giving me deja vu the more I think about it.

Progress

The Drowning City

Words today: 1028
Words total: 29,416

29,416 / 90,000 (32.7%)

Reason for stopping: time to close
Sustenance: cheesy poofs
Darling: n/a
Tyop: Black ribbons of blood twisted in the currant.
Mean things: Isyllt nearly drowned and was attacked by monsters, then framed for murder.
Deaths: Yes! Many redshirts got eaten by monsters, and someone more important was murdered.

I have received the blessing of my plotboy. This book actually has enough plot. Now I just have to put it together in order.