I am given to understand that in the States, the Library Journal is a big thing: the Organ of the Trade, as it were. Every librarian reads it, and we like librarians.

Right now, we like the Library Journal. It says:

Fox, Daniel. Jade Man's Skin. Del Rey: Ballantine. (Moshui, the Books of
Stone and Water, Bk. 2). Feb. 2010. c.432p. ISBN 978-0-345-50304-6. pap.
$15. FANTASY

The dragon once chained in the straits of Taishu now flies free, seeking
revenge yet still controlled by a slave boy's mind. As civil war rages, a
deposed emperor and his allies attempt to thwart the plans of an ambitious
general. A wide variety of characters, from a ruthless pirate captain to a
beautiful and politically savvy imperial concubine, provide multiple
viewpoints to this depiction of a land in turmoil and the people who try to
restore it to harmony. VERDICT Fox's love of all things Chinese shines
through this sequel to Dragon in Chains, which should appeal to fans of
Asian-themed fantasy such as Lian Hearne's Across the Nightingale Floor and
Barry Hughart's Bridge of Birds.

[I don't b'lieve Lian Hearn has an "e" at the end of her name, which the Library Journal really ought to know, but hey...]

[Edited for gender: whoops, I really ought to have known that...]

If you go here, you can read (and look at!) an essay by Robert Hunt, on how he created the cover art for Jade Man's Skin. The process is fascinating, for those of us who cannot draw. Also, there are tigers.

Words, words, words.

Oddly close to the target number of words, too. There's a thing to worry about; the previous two ran far, far over and had to be hacked back to here and then hacked back again. Perhaps this one is just light of content...?

Well, we'll see. For now it can just sit and fester for a while. That process of remembering all those things that should have gone into it and haven't, that process has already begun; unfortunately it began in the middle of the night, and by this morning I have of course forgotten again.

156132 / 156132 words. 100.0% done!

We're getting there.

What's more, I may have found an ending. Of a sort. It's always been the problem with this book, that it could seem inconsequential; no spoilers, but it's kind of an aftermath-novel, a "now how do we live with the results of vol two?" more than a grim march into inevitability.

But! It has perhaps had a plot after all, or at least a crypto-plot, sneaking through in the undergrowth. And I hope the resolution will be unexpected. I live to make people say, "Oh. Really? That?" Which is a noble ambition, and none should begrudge it me.

152760 / 155000 words. 98.6% done!

I am just beginning to wonder whether ironic detachment is quite the right position from which to be watching the denouement of what ought to be a gripping & involving fantasy trilogy...

Still. Too late now. On, on.

Also, the sharp-eyed among you will notice that the goalposts have been shifted. I expect them to shift again before we're done here. Not far, though, not unreasonably far.

Also, landmark! (Which is of course the occasion of the shifting.)

150057 / 155000 words. 96.8% done!

So. Even the tiger is a traitor - but to whom?

M'very good friend desperance has been heard to say - more than once, because he does love to quote himself - that in the last analysis all fiction is about betrayal. I say that you need a looser definition than most people work with, but that's Chaz: go off to the loo and he's never quite sure you're planning to come back. And he's probably concocting a story about it.

Meanwhile, I nearly think this city pretends it's almost done:

142777 / 150000 words. 95.2% done!

I have entirely lost count of my days. Can't lose sight of the target, though: the end of the book is not equivocable.

Well, there will be people who say "That is not an ending!" but I can't help that. Or them.

The city looms on the horizon. It seems to have sprouted a tallboy, since last I looked.

135558 / 150000 words. 90.4% done!

Everything fell all apart for a while there. Slowly, slowly we are putting stuff back together. Here, for example, is a kitty-cat, to make everything better:




And meanwhile, no city is ever abandoned; life inheres.

127225 / 150000 words. 84.8% done!

Damn, yesterday was a bad day. And today's not going to get any better.

Here's a nice review, to cheer us all up.

That's all you're getting, though. I can't remember the numbers, but the city looks much like yesterday.

Smite that novel. Smite it, I say, with your wordages! Words are ammunition, to break down the resistant walls of a book...

This metaphor is getting muddled. But yesterday we invented explosive ammunition, which has got to be all to the good. Um, hasn't it...?

106400 / 150000 words. 70.9% done!

Into the last month here, on my ration-of-days. Also into that area where I have to face a couple of dreadful truths: the first being that I have never ever written a book to the prescribed or predicted length in first draft, so I am almost certain to overrun; and the second being that simple wordcount is, like patriotism, not enough. It would be nice if there was a story, not just a scatter of separate events. Life is just one thing after another, but books ... aren't. Sigh. I hate narrative.

104365 / 150000 words. 69.6% done!

As I foretold thee: that was two days off. Not an official hiatus, so the days still count, alas.

Still, came back to it yesterday and wrote lots'n'lots. Still no sign of an actual cohesive plot. This is a mosaic piece, a sort of after-the-frenzy novel where no one's quite sure what they want now, only that they don't want this. It's ... difficult. Non-linear, divergent. Eek.

Onward. I am nearly two days behind, and need to upcatch.

102364 / 150000 words. 68.2% done!

That? Takes us past the two-thirds mark, both in time and on paper. I am almost up to date.

Which is, of course, why I'm going to stop now. I have inched, crawled, whimpered and kicked my way to 100K; today is Sunday; today I am not going to touch this book, open this book, I am not going to think about this book if I can help it.

And tomorrow is a bank holiday, and if there's any decent movies on the TV I'm not working tomorrow either. So there.

100039 / 150000 words. 66.7% done!

Eek. Time-wise, that's two thirds of my hundred days gone (excluding haitusis, obviously. Haitii. Whatever).

Do I have two-thirds of a book? Not quite. A day late, a dollar short - but that's just wordcount. I have no idea whether I actually have anything remotely beginning to resemble an actual functional book here.

Still. One brick on another, and we'll sort out the plumbing later...

98260 / 150000 words. 65.5% done!

Hmmph. The most interesting thing about that was how hard it was: starting late and writing slow, really struggling with it. Despite the tiger. Who is ... not as other beasts. Well, not as other companion animals, anyway. Quite beastly, I guess.

I say no more, only that today might not be productive, even of quota. I can't follow my usual routine for external reasons (like, they've locked the doors of the library against me), so I'm mostly going to stay home and sulk. If I go to work at all, I have other things to do, stuff to read through. This won't be a day off, but it might be a day off-novel.

Meantime, after a drop down almost to ground level, the city shows a hint of rise again (so is this reflecting my mood, or is it driving it...?):

95676 / 150000 words. 63.8% done!

Lord, what a day that was. *scowls and kicks things* It started with technical calamity, matured in rank idiocy (why yes, we do have cats! why do you ask?) and ended with personal violation (I lost the bridge from ma mouf).

And still'n'all. Quota. There may have been a tiger involved...

94102 / 150000 words. 62.7% done!

Okay, so that alleged day off turned into an official short-story-writing hiatus, which stops the clock: I think that's only fair, when I'm actually doing other legitimate work. It would've been nice to write the novel in a hundred calendar days, but a hundred days of work is also good. The sea does not deduct from man's allotted days those hours spent worshipping Allah.

Aaaand we're back. The skyline marches on:

92510 / 150000 words. 61.7% done!

So there I was, with forty days and forty nights left, half a day behind already, and what did I do?

Quota. Barely a word more. "Chiseller!" they cried.

And what am I going to do today? Well, the future is uncertain, but right now my plan is to write not one word of this novel, to fall a day and a half behind with just thirty-eight days and thirty-eight nights to go.

Hmm. I'm sure I have my reasons. It can't just be that I'm bored with this architecture, can it...?

90787 / 150000 words. 60.5% done!

Day 59? Was off. So now I'm officially off-target again, behind the line, belated. If you want to throw peanuts, I'd rather have cashews, thanks.

Day 60? Quota. Yay. End of chapter, end of curious divagation into the mountains with cute boy, boo! But I figured out the next chapter, yay. There is still skin on my teeth, it seems...

Onward. We build this city on rock and roll the sweat of our brows, and new pages (almost) every day.

89195 / 150000 words. 59.5% done!

Hey, I made quota. It is not a failure, it is not a breach of discipline to make quota, right? Even if you could have gone on to write more, but went out instead. Even if there was much pub and drinkingness, where there might have been worthiness and work...

Still enjoying this chapter, though it does feel like a not-quite-separate short story within the main drift of the book. I may possibly have described it in the pub as a tumour; I hope that doesn't mean it has to be excised.

I might, possibly, have today off. Might not, but it's feeling like a temptation. Even though I'll fall behind my daily target again if I do. Choices, choices...

87655 / 150000 words. 58.4% done!