Once again, "A Siren for the Dead" has chewed me up and spat me out again.

I have been working on this novel for quite some time, possibly as much as two years. I can't remember anymore. I work on it in spurts, occassionally drawn back to the characters for another round.

The novel is 133 pages so far, rife with subplots, interesting characters and strange women--called 'sirens'--that can bring the dead back to life.

Alphonse Trekker, Commander of the city militia on his homeworld of Loamarl, must find a missing siren on planet Earth, restore order to the chaotic city of Nalakien and find a murderer before it's too late.

As you can see, I've dug myself into a hole.

I keep going back and discovering little things that I've forgotten. It always seems to slip my mind that Alphonse broke his arm while engaged in a knife fight with a siren.

Minor characters come into the scene, then dissipate.

I almost completely forgot about Agent Henson of the CIA, secret off-world intelligence branch.

I grow daunted and I close Word as a desperate attempt to escape from a piece of work so huge that I've lost myself in it.

I've written over ten novels, but I get all befuddled when I forget that Commander Trekker has a broken arm.

Go figure.

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