I continue to exist. My long absence is the result of a constellation of non-catastrophic things: diligent, daily writing on Novel A and Novel B; guilt over the unfaceable backlog of friendslist reading; and that ever more encroaching bugaboo of multiple social platforms (Twitter, mostly--it's quick).
Also: a dying computer and a comedy of errors in getting it replaced, and some obsessively self-soothing SPN rewatching.
Novel A is Restraint 2.0: The Non-Fanfic Version. My first comprehensive revision didn't meet with pro-editor favor, and the computer-replacement fiasco ate up the funds for further paid editorial help. But both paid-for and free comments I've solicited agree that significant restructuring is necessary if Baby is to be marketable. It's emotionally and intellectually hard work. But I'm doing it.
Novel B is nothing but research (I'm reading a fascinating new biography of Aleister Crowley) and character sketches so far.
The setting is roughly 1910; maybe Glasgow, maybe Southern California, probably both. It's about a Golden-Dawn-like secret society, belief in magic, actual magic, lost-wax casting, mind-rape, actual asexuality, steamship travel, hypnotism, the Arts and Crafts movement, architecture...
...well, as you can see, it's still pretty loosely defined. The central working idea is to take one character's statement, "I no longer believe that the magic ever happened," and let the story change that character's mind. The main character is a silversmith called Eleanora Burne, and she's making me cry. Mostly because she's me. You know. Kind of a Eusyram. (Eventually I'll file that off, too.)
So, yes. Still existing. Chipping away at this thing called life. How's everyone doing?
Crossposted from Dreamwidth, where there are comments.