I am listening to The Tension and the Spark-- I have not listened to it since last winter. It fills me with bleakness. As Elton John says, "Sad songs say so much," and we love them. I love them.

The weather is laden with heaviness. Even though the darkness indicates winter, the mornings are balmy, but there's the feeling that at any moment it will be cold again. A true Indian Summer.

I am finishing Cambriel soon. At the last moment several things came up, and I began to think I must write another 50K to finish it. Not so. This thing will be done in three days, whether it should be or not. I'm ready to have those two hours every day back, thanks very much.

It's been a wild ride. This is the most diverse book I've written. I know that's a dangerous word, but really.

So far I have lived out my gothic circus fantasy and part of my unicorn fantasy, my walking along a crumbling, deserted Interstate fantasy (though I did that in fact this summer) and a whole lot of other fantasies I didn't know I had. A truly fantastical book. And there's even a surprise sex moment (scene might be too strong a word). There's been a lot of characters coming in I didn't expect, including a tie-in from a story I thought was hopeless, Red Rose. There's also possibly more violence than in anything I've ever written. And a good amount of humor, which I've never tried writing before and is probably pathetic. Some pathos-- a lot of melancholy and darkness. Diversity is a very dangerous word, and before I was a stranger to it. I hope I don't end up hating this book.

In short, Cambriel came at a much higher price than A Raven for a Lark. It has been much harder to do. But it has been so much better, and it has really challenged me. If I send to a publisher, this will no doubt be the first thing I send. It is very interesting, to say the least, even if my writing craft needs a lot of work.

I can't believe I'm almost done with this novel. I don't want to speak too soon, but I have certainly never gotten this far on a non-traditional story before. Today I was absorbed totally in my world, and I think I am going to be really depressed when it's done in December-- though I'm sure I'll get over it when I realize I don't have to show up at my computer 5:30 every morning.

I have some great photography ideas coming up. I can't wait to set up my photo cube and start trying them out. My ironing board is not necessary to the living room now that I'm off of sewing presently (an activity better for warmer months, when my fingers aren't cold), so I will replace it with the cube.

I can't wait to go to Louisiana tomorrow! My favorite state in the whole world. These eyes will see bayous and swamps in less than two days. The thought gives me a thrill. I think of it as Blanche's home, and Jenny's, and Hennessy and Charles, Christopher, Quentin, Lilly-- they were all born in my mind when I was there. I can see the trees cracking up the sidewalks in Metairie with their enormousness. I can see the sunlit pathway to The Book Rack. I am already there.

My NaNoWriMo motivational email this morning proclaimed that if you are at 35K, you will definitely win. I am actually 400 words away from that number.

This week has been so hard. I have not let the sun go down on me once without a cap on my goal, but it has been at the expense of my health, hygiene, and fun. I don't even think about wearing the same pantyhose two days in a row anymore.

And that darkling hour-- 5:30 am-- it's really hell. I never have any idea what I will write, and the clock is ticking.

This may be one of the last Palm-based posts I write for a while. I am so upset to be giving up my Rose for what will probably be weeks, but she must be fixed.

Meanwhile I discovered some new gothic literature communities on Livejournal that really have me excited. I can't wait to read Carmilla. I see this happening on a pillow by the window with tea. I have a lot of things I need to do this weekend. This month, I am living only for Cambriel, and getting distracting chores out of the way may be key to my success.

This morning was very romantic as I wrote. The sun was rising, and it was incredibly windy. It sounded like the siding would blow off. It was hard to say it was beginning to rain because the wind was so much more noticeable than the rain. It led to good inspiration, and I almost completed my word count, amazingly.

I have not bathed in three days, but that's okay.

I have got to update my outline this evening. I am coming up blank on the future of Cambriel and my word count was supposed to come easier halfway through the story. According to my NaNoWriMo motivational emails, once you cross the half-way point, it's downhill from there. I don't think so!

I even did what I really didn't want to do-- I introduced a new character. He's necessary to the story, but I don't like him. One thing about all my characters is that I love all of them, passionately. Some of them may be evil, but they still possess great beauty. This character is not like that. I'll try to shape him into something more appealing.

Inspired by the book I am reading I decided to do my own Labyrinth ball plagiarism-- who better to do the Goblin King than my own Shelley? I like my vision very much-- but the pacing fell through somewhere along the way.

This story is filled with fantastical visions interspersed with scenes mundane in the extreme. I am satisfied with it. At 5:30 in the morning I can't ask for more than that. It's hard to believe that by the end of this month Cambriel will be complete.

It is a pleasure like no other. My day is guaranteed to be meaningful because I have to write, even if it takes all of my self-discipline. However, I am ready to have my life back. I am thinking of scheduling a couple days in December for me. I miss River Legacy and taking photographs. I also desperately wish I could learn the erhu. A couple intense days of studying it, without subjecting others to the horrifying sounds it produces in practice, is just what I need.

I was afraid I would not be able to make a sound on it. How wrong I was-- the slightest bowing sounds like an animal in pain. Putting my strength in it, it deepens into a wail of agony. Surely the violin isn't this awful.

Right now I'm hearing Purcell's King Arthur: Prelude (Chacony) and it is moving me bodily from this place. I think it is Baroque. I must look into it later.

Sometimes classical music is more than music.

When I'm done writing, I'm never totally sure how I did it. Each day I start out feeling like my words are an insurmountable task though each day, to my astonishment, I always pull through. I haven't once failed.

It's better than last year. My story, I hope, is better, too. I feel that I am learning what it's like to truly be a writer-- I have lived to serve my work, and it has given me utmost satisfaction.

All the same, I am looking forward to December, to playing my erhu, to taking pictures again. I would not want to maintain this frenetic pace for more than a month.

I am over 20,000 words on Cambriel. I am tracking my progress and giving myself means to edit it away from home through my story workspace-- ophelia14.multiply.com, which is a new system I love. I feel like I'm coming to a new and highly progressive era in my work.

Rose lives! This seems to be a software error, on a particular weakness I already knew about. The speaker is not broken, because I can trick it into working, for about a second. It seems like because I dropped it with the headphones on, it believes perpetually that the headphones are in. I will try a soft reset and if all else fails, I am convinced a hard reset will do it (though that is really scary).

I can't believe I'm finally reading Maturin's Melmoth at the ripe age of 26. I remember reading about it when I did my thesis on gothic romance in high school, but I could not locate a copy. Thanks to Gutenberg and the wonders of technology I have all the books at my disposal I have sought.

Anyway, those two stories were written in the same era-- the 1810's; they could not be more different. Polidori was immensely effusive in his writing style and his characters were possessed of inconquerable sensibility. Maturin, on the other hand, is as unadorned as a Victorian writer. It's remarkable to think he wrote this way at a time when no one else did.

Polidori's Vampyre was a great disappointment to me. It seems Polidori must have gotten tired of writing it and ceased to take it seriously-- the last bit seems entirely a joke. I am only in the first of Melmoth, but the characters are entirely different, very hard and straightforward. I think I will like it. From what I have read, it expands to the madhouse and the death chamber, and I would like to know how that was two hundred years ago.