The Scribbler's Own Business Manager
So I've been thinking today, and there are still posts I want to get written about creativity and I have not forgotten my last iteration of ideas of where to go with this blog, but... I also started to think about my focus as a businessperson and how much of this blog is just me being me. I need to get all my fiction, poetry, and what-have-you into some sort of monetization (need to eat and all that), and that is something I have been wrangling, that line "Where Art Meets Commerce," neatly addressed by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.
The Audience Speaks
Oh, how the clamoring tides request completed fanfiction! I'm still not sure why the sudden rush upon my fanfiction, but the reviews and alerts and favorites keep pouring in, and a part of me itches to get it all catalogued on this site. But, ahem, it's not precisely the first priority in a mercenary world, not with the muses alive and active and so much reading still to do for friends that I have not done. :hides face in shame:
The Muse Speaks
And then there's the problem of Ryven, a character in this mess of a Vardin book that I just located in the very worst place I could have written him. I didn't want him far apart from Abigail in age, and certainly not of Rhiannon's generation, but somehow he got into "Gone Hunting" before I realized it and gave me a gift scene (not shown) that opened up the whole idea behind The Rothnen Cycle to me. I was not pleased.
Oh, I know, dear muse—who worked overtime to make these manifold, disparate threads come together—, I should be grateful. You gave me the whole story, the subtext, the key to interlocking these pieces, but it requires that Ryven be in his early thirties and Abby her late teens when they meet. Did I mention they were supposed to marry a year or so later?
Ah, muse, you are at times a fox, the trickster, with your 'gifts.'
But so is Whisper, my muse says, almost puzzled. You like her.
She's not my fox, I point out testily, at which the muse wisely refrains from further comment.
Snippet of the Day
Port City, Vardin, is a city satisfied with itself. The people are happy in their business, still familiar with that old way of locomoting about town: walking, and going in and out of unmarked buildings with a perfect understanding of where it is they frequent. This is a city where to not know the occupants of an establishment nor be recommended by a friend or friendly acquaintance is to not know where to go for anything you might need.
I am kidayet here, an outsider, in a place that speaks a hundred foreign tongues and has never learned the meaning of the word 'tourist.'
