Writing as much as I have been writing and reading as much as I have been reading lately, I got to the point where I feel torn regarding my genre.  (I was pleasantly surprised by Shanghai baby, because someone told me it's quite bad, but I found it to be remarkably honest and feministic, at least by comparison to anything written by Chelsea Handler, which was awful supposedly-same genre- literature). I have gotten to the point where I can write well enough to think that the things I am writing ABOUT are stupid… I mean, I wrote a good, really good scene in which the heroine strangles her lover to death, down to the forensic details, complete with inner turmoil monologue. She does it in a righteous – which is the worst kind of a – way, because he asked her to, as opposed to advocating life as she’s always done, and in result she falls into a deep depression – this kill being a trigger for all of her more or less painful past two years catching up with her otherwise perky disposition… I wrote a paragraph starting with “how did my world get so dark?..” really well, I though, when it hit me – dude, I’m writing about elves and starships… isn’t it time I tried writing a real novel? I even got a good idea that Drej helped me kick into shape over coffee, and ghost writing my dad’s memoirs should be an amazing project I have set for winter, but…  I know I can do better. I want to do better. While still true to my genre. I want to stay on my elves and kings and space stations, but I want to be better at describing them. You can’t write in the tone of a high literature and expect people to read it for fun. Starships are not meant to be taken seriously. They are meant to entertain people on long transatlantic flights. They are meant to be metaphors, so I am going to learn how to let them thrive under the burden of being metaphors.

Which is good, because while the General is working night shifts, the only thing I am really industrious at, is making him super delicious surprise lunch packages. My Little Karlins chapters are all over the place, sleeping is a bitch (hate hate hate sleeping alone) and having him home for the mornings leads nowhere. And also, of course, I am waiting for the moment when I finally get to hold my latest book, printed and ready for sale. I am so paranoid about it, I am having nightmares about the transport van which will deliver them one of these day, getting in an accident and burning down. Freaking out, I know. But that’s me. A Chinese firecracker. General says the only time I am really Zen is when I fart and then pause to listen if he’s heard me. That’s the one moment of absolute tranquility he can honestly relate to me.