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The Summer of Getting Shit Done

A couple weeks ago, Caitlin Kittredge blogged about Project Unicorn – a list of projects she needs to get through by the end of the summer. And Theodora Goss, together with Nathan Ballingrud and Alexandra Duncan have started the YA Novel Challenge, in which they have all agreed to finish a novel in the next three months. Since both of these projects dovetail with my own goals, I’m doing both, and calling it Project Centicorn! That’s centipede + unicorn, a monstrous mash-up creation of getting shit done with extra legs and horns, because that’s just how I roll. (And no, I will not call it Project Unipede, because that sounds like some kind of genital-revealing spandex onesie that porny retailer American Apparel might market. Believe it or not, I have limits.)

So, below is my Project Centicorn list. Every week (let’s say Monday’s) I’ll repost it with an update as to what I’ve accomplished.

* first draft of FrankenNovel (80k words max) by end of Labor Day Weekend (Sept 4)
* reread “The King in Yellow” (research for story invite) by end of summer
* reread “Grimscribe” (research for other story invite) by end of summer

Other Shit
* finish moving everything out of the office which has turned into an ant colony/death trap
* move my books into storage – silverfish in the building means they all have to go [::sob::]
* hang new blinds in my kitchen/living room area – the rest of the apartment is a Lovecraftian void of madness and needs major renovating, but I’m a renter, so fuck it
* go the gym a minimum of 75 times from now through September 4 (allowing for travel days and housesitting for three weeks in a neighborhood nowhere near my gym)

FYI, the FrankenNovel may or may not be YA – it has a young protagonist (17), but that doesn’t mean it will read as YA. For now I’m not thinking about it, and just trying to finish the damn thing.


Originally published at Livia Llewellyn.

Marine Autumn

I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.

--Pablo Neruda.

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