I'm on writing fire.
The words are dripping from my fingers, which is unpleasant, the nails on my fingers have blackened*, and curled, the house smells of smoke.
This is good, because I'm not going to ROR next week. I love ROR, and I dearly wish I was going, particularly now that the words are coming, but they weren't, so what are you going to do.
Bought a copy of Jay Lake's Trial of Flowers yesterday. If you can get your hands on a copy do so – particularly if you've enjoyed Brian Aldiss' Malacia Tapestry, one of my favourite books – the book possesses a wonderfully grim and dark joie de vivre, and a sense of multitudes.
I'm flipping between it and Saul Bellow's Humbolt's Gift. I've been dipping into Bellow's collected short stories of for a while now, but the novel is working on a much heightened level**. I'm loving the layering of imagery (the book drips with telling images) the depth of characterisation, not a single word is wasted. When I read Bellow I just want to write, not because I feel I can ever match it but because of the possibilities he reveals. Faulkner, Salinger, Updike, DeLillo, all of these writers stretch the limits of the word for me, subtly sometimes, but definitely and all make me want to write, just to see what might happen.***
*Fortunately there are creams for this sort of thing.
**Well, duh. Except some novels don't.
***And they're all old white men, time to broaden my reading a little.