La Pia Dolomei, Gabriel Dante Rossetti
Winter has unsheathed its claws and raked the lingering remains of summer to shreds, blown the summery bits into the wide bone-white, sun-bare sky.
Every now and then I think I’ll not get anywhere with the writing until I’m retired from day work and my time is my own to devote to my books. The past few days, bygone hours with nothing much to recommend them, hence the silence here. I’ve been working on A Lamentation of Swans, have managed a couple thousand new words. Right now they’re just words.
I’ve asked myself what is this book about? Every time I ask that question, I get a little more of the answer. What themes underlie the story? What am I writing about? Variations on the Question. The perversities of culture, the way a people internalize the perversities of their culture–that’s one thematic thread. Each time I get a bit of answer to the Question, the novel slips its genre boundaries–what few it has–a little more. I’m not one for genre much and not all that keen on boundaries–never could color inside the lines–but neither do I have the flaming talent, like some do, to transcend, brilliantly. Still I’ve got my ways.