Huh. Apparently Burrough's John Carter stories are public domain now. I've read A Princess of Mars, I bought it last semester, and it's a lot of fun. It has several uncomfortable moments for the modern reader, because Carter, true to his time, is quite the racist, especially about Native Americans. But, I just marked that down under "verisimilitude" and wandered off into a good story about kidnapping red chicks and fighting big green ape-things. Good stuff. Here's the first chapter under Wikisource. It links on to the rest. I recommend it. And it's free.

I wonder if the other books are around somewhere, then...

Anyway. Other stuff. Ganked from Wil Shetterly's blog, Steven Brust's Advice to Aspiring Writers. Brust writes the Vlad Taltos books, so some of you out there should be interested. One of my favorite pieces of advice? "4. Concentrate on basics, such as grammar, and constructing a good sentence. If you can write a good sentence, you can do any form of writing." There are a few there I like, but don't do at all, such as number one -- don't tell anyone you're writing a novel. : ) Shetterly deals with that afterwards -- it's different for different people. But Brust is funny, and really talks more about attitude and work ethic.

Another from Shetterly's blog, by him this time: Three Stories into One: a Key to Plotting and an End to Writer's Block. This is good as well, and highlights why I get irritated with people when they complain about writer's block -- it usually means they're just not putting their mind to the right fulcrum. My nearest bout of what one might call writer's block happened when I wrote that first novel, once I got three of the four main characters together. The fourth showed up, found their books for them (she worked at the library), and helped them puzzle out a prophecy (in an attempt at humor, they figure it out very quickly -- not sure how that'll hold up when I go back to it). Suddenly I couldn't move forward.

What to do? Well, if I had listened to all the LiveJournal posts ever, in the history of ever, I would have complained about it, and slumped in defeat for two weeks, derailing my work ethic and writing process. Instead, I lay down in the "library," spread-eagle, staring up at the ceiling, working out what the problem could possibly be. After five minutes I had twirled the different dials, and the one that caught was Asphodel -- why in the hell, one part of my brain said to another, would she leave her home, family, and nice job to help these crazy people that just showed up?

So I applied those two parts of my brain, and all the rest. Twenty minutes later, after one encounter with my father ("It's four in the morning? What are you doing up? On the floor?"), I had clicked all the pieces into place. Well, obviously, I said to myself, as Dad had gone back to bed, she doesn't think they can get the job done. She's much smarter than the main character, after all.

And I was back to writing, where I did 100 more words, saved, and went to sleep, to get up the next day and fill out the first few scenes I would need. Wee, and the like.

Yes, I do still have a paper to write, what's it to you? I'm not puzzled, it's just tedious. I know all the stuff, there's nothing new to discover as I'm typing. Sigh. Okay, back to medieval monks and their unconscious mirroring of Celtic myth. Or something. Maybe food.