I really dislike my new novel this year. It is hard to explain why. For one, it is a story that has been ripening in my head for over four years now, ever since my first dig. Although this makes the plot easier to get down on the page, it definitely feels stale. I'm not obsessed with it, and the characters do not live in my mind the way I had hoped they would. Constantly I am hit by flashes of other stories I could be writing that speak to the aesthetics that currently inspire me. This work is not a work of my soul. It feels, far more than the last, like schoolwork. Not the least because it concerns archaeology, and because it dredges up a time in my life in which I was unhappy. Even though the story is light and intended for young readers, which was refreshing at first, it does weigh me down, and I find it lacks the sense of whimsy and wonder necessary in children's literature. I am still a day behind, grasping blindly towards the 25,000 word mark. This is supposed to be the hardest part of the month for everyone, so hopefully once I pass 30k things will have become easier again. It was very easy at the beginning of the month. But that does not mean it was any good. I fear I might simply have waited too long to write the thing. I'm determined to finish, though, because if I can't do this now when I could do it last year, then I'm completely useless.

Also, the California fires make me very sad. California has done nothing but disappoint me lately.

It's going to be winter soon. Thoughts of Christmas keep me warm.