I've been reading Peter David's Tigerheart, which I was really excited to finally read. I've heard excellent things about it. I'm about a third of the way in and, well, I'm not sure about it. One second I think, "this guy is really doing interesting things with narrative and reality," the next second I think, "this isn't groundbreaking, it's arch and studied." My snobby lit-major me is at war with my practical, straightforward me. I can't decide if I'm being sucked into an elaborate practical joke or if I'm just immature in my literary choices.
Anyway, wrestling with this book, and myself, has kind of depressed me, not helped by yet another rejection received today. I've been working on Little Sparrow the last few days although I still don't really know where it's going. Mostly I just wanted a project to work on, and Little Sparrow was in my head already since The Price of Justice is set in the same world and I just finished revising it.
But I think tomorrow I'm going to start the pursuit of the Ignoble Experiment. I will read the Harlequin Intrigue book I bought at Goodwill last month, carefully examining it for evidence of tropes and commonplaces that I need to know, and then I will attempt to write a book for that series. If I can. Because frankly, there's a slightly better chance I could sell one of those than the books I've already written.