I'm more than one way a liar. I'm not uploading Luna to Smashwords, I'm uploading the first edited chapter of my novel, The First Task of Symon Daye. And it didn't happen yesterday, and it isn't happening today, either... I need to make my SO make a suitable cover for me. I was going to just make something in Paint, but I didn't really think that was fair, either to me, or my novel. I'm awful at paint, and my beloved is so, so much better at art than I am. So, now I have to get on his butt to help me out. I don't think anyone will be too upset, but just in case, it's still free, so, you get what you pay for.
I'm still doing Camp NaNoWriMo. I'm chugging along pretty well, but doing this only makes me remember how much I don't really like people who do NaNoWriMo. Everyone should write, I firmly believe that, but we're talking about some people who haven't written since November. Haven't. Written. Since. NOVEMBER. These people aren't writers! They're hobbyists! Grumble, grumble, and I'm done. There are a lot of people who have written, and who use NaNo for the same reasons I do. Getting yourself motivated, having a national support group of people going through the same things you are, and all in all I think it's a very effective way of getting people to write who wouldn't normally do so. And I can't really talk about writing. I took a month off after NaNo last year (my computer was broken, damn it) and this is the first time I've gotten farther that 10k into a novel since. Lots of short stories, and other, more personal writing goals met, but I still can't say with any degree of accuracy that I'm a professional writer.
My novel. Man, my novel. it's called Coming Home, and it's the strangest thing I've written to date. It's not really fantasy, and it's not really science fiction, it's mostly set on another world, but it could just as easily be set on a world that's made out of bits and pieces of our own. I like it. I really do. It's a sad story, but that's okay. Some stories are just sad. It's about death, and I've just lost someone. It's about losing faith, and I haven't had faith since I was a child. It's about the Truth, and I don't know it. That's okay. Neither does my character, and neither does anyone he interacts with, though they might claim differently.
I've said this on here before, that this novel is going to be incredibly important to my growth as a writer. I've talked with my fiancee, and we've both come to the conclusion that it's not really an art, for me. I'm not an artist. I love to write, and I think I do it well, but it's not art. I'm driven, but not by a higher sense of aesthetics. It's a craft. Work. Beloved work, to be sure, but still, work. There is a definite sense of effort being put in to writing, and also of trying to make my writing better.
Blegh. NaNo starts again, and immediately, I'm back making journal posts. I feel pretty bad about the story, but I'll get it up there. With a decent cover, or, if I can't coerce one out of him, one of my own.
Time to get writing. See you on the slip side.