The writing is starting to come along. 3,000 words this weekend on the rewrite, in the midst of much tiring house mending. We bought three bookcases at Ikea that actually aren’t butt-ugly and put them together. I’ve also been emptying box after box of books and CDs.

We took a delightful break on Sunday for incredibly tasty dim sum with Lisa Morton and her partner, Ricky. They came over and saw Robespierre, who was on markedly better behavior that morning than when Christa Faust was here. Naughty kitten! La terreur!

I also colored my hair. Um…the resulting color doesn’t remotely match that which was on the box, unfortunately. It’s not a bad color, just not the right color. Alas!

The only part of the weekend that made me wince was reading King’s On Writing where he actually tells writers that they shouldn’t plot. I almost rolled off the couch when I read that! The problem with many otherwise talented writers in genre — or, for that matter, writers period — is that they don’t know how to effing plot! Their books drag interminably because they are clueless as to how to create pace and suspense. No thanks, Mr. King. I’ve had my fill of suffering from books that wander, have shitty endings or move forward with the impetus of a brick mortared into a wall. And why does that happen? Because the writer didn’t care or know how to create a plot. As King himself would say, Fuggedaboutit!

Despite that, he says a lot of nifty things about writing that I wish more writers would heed.

Now to collapse.