"They built a statue of us -- and later said it's all our fault."

As I type this, the snow they've been threatening all weekend has finally started to settle outside my window. It's not doing much, mind you, and on Friday when the weather people went nuts and told us to stock up on fuel supplies and essential food items (generally most parts of New Zealand see significant snow only rarely, and it tends to screw us up) I went to the Four Square and returned with a litre of low fat milk, a bottle of vanilla, a dozen eggs and a package of dates. Because obviously, as far as I am concerned, if I am snowed in all I care about is omelettes, date scones and Oreo-infused chocolate chip cookies.

...probably it's better, if you don't ask about that last one.

But yes, I have had to spend the weekend being somewhat productive considering the fact that in less than two weeks I will be out of the country for an indeterminate period. Today I've spent the afternoon cleaning the bathroom out and throwing clothes and laundry from my room into Tyler's. I'm not sure that I've achieved all that much by doing so, but...it was a start? I also cleaned the kitchen, mostly because I'd left it in a state after the Brownie Experiment of Thursday night and I wanted to make soda bread for lunch. I also need to make soup for dinner. Oh, joy. (The Oreo cookies are, somewhat thankfully, on hold for the meantime.) Despite all this, though, I have actually managed to do some writing over the week. Probably not as much as I ought to have, but considering everything...

Right as of this minute, the Greywater .doc is sitting at 92,177 words. The writing I've done over the last week, too, has been a little...odd. Well, not odd, strictly; it's just that on Monday I started to get a much clearer idea about where the story is supposed to be going, and instead of writing things in full I've been sketching out scenes in dialogue and stage direction, and going through the novel in order to get things straight before I smooth out the line art and colour it all in. This is how I write short stories; it doesn't usually work so well with longer pieces, but considering the fact I started writing this story with no idea as to where it was going...well. It's all good, in any way I get it? I don't know.

Still, for a bit of a giggle, have an example of my sketchy-writing:

The head rose, turned to him, and the eyes opened.

Otho wanted to rear back, but he was frozen in place by the eyes. The statue was made of ice, but the colour in the eyes was there. Blue, green, grey, white – the sea in full storm. But no anger. Just the force of a great personality, a greater art.

“I…”

Slight shake of his head. And then, he reached forward. The bear. Woken, it raised its head, yawned, and then looked to him. Black eyes, rich with intelligence, lazy with easily-given affection.

As if in a dream, Otho accepted the bear from the boy-god. He nodded, smiled. Had not exactly been beautiful in life, not in the fashion of the brawn farmer Janerin or the notorious courtesan Amanita, but that did not matter. Otho could not look anywhere else.

The bear nuzzled, butted his chin. For a strange moment he wondered what he would do, if it decided to sink its little ice-teeth into the great vein in his throat. But he felt no danger, no fear, and then it settled as it had in the boy-god’s cradling embrace, and Inamoran smiled wider. Sadness, in those storm-ridden eyes, but still he smiled.

“What am I supposed to do?” “You want me to help her, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“How?”

Turned his head. Janerin, in the darkness before them.

“He won’t help me.”

And Inamoran shook his head. Otho knew he’d misunderstood, and wished he would speak. But the cold of the bear was spreading through his limbs. Not uncomfortable. Reminded him of how strange he’d always thought it, when people said that drowning was a peaceful way to die. Lungs filling with liquid, struggling, fighting against a force overwhelming every inch of your body. Had never seen what could possibly be peaceful about that.

Thought he understood now. The cold in every part of him, and yet it felt like a dream pulling him deeper into sleep, into a place where dreams were no long necessary. No desire to fight, but then he looked into those eyes again.

“Please!” “Please, tell me how to save her!”

Smiled.

When he opened his eyes, he was in his bed. A dream? But the pillow was wet. Put a trembling finger to it, then to his lips. The taste of salt, the taste of tears. But he remembered the weight of the ice-cub in his arms, and he wondered.

As I said, I tend to just go by the dialogue to get the point of the scene, and then I just throw in half-formed sentences and key snippets of description so that when I eventually get around to filling in the gaps, I remember the road of the Zone I was careening down at a thousand miles an hour the first time I did a drive-by of it. Good times, as I said. The polar bear cub story, incidentally, still depresses me but this little snippet here has gone a long way towards cheering me up. Daw.

And you know, when I was walking around the reserve this morning looking for the snow that never turned up, I had all these ideas about what I was going to write about today in this blog. Mostly it was a tvtropes-driven explanation of the genesis of the two lead characters of Greywater, but I find after having spent the afternoon tidying and cleaning and whatnot I'd much rather just go and write. But just for laughs, if you look in that picture up there of my desk you should be able to see a drawing on the left, somewhere above the plate of my Pink Lady apple (yes, I have to cut my apple up like a baby; I had braces for years as a kid and also knocked half of one of my front teeth off when I was seven at Conon Street swimming pool; I honestly can't bite into an apple to save my own life). That drawing is some line-art from a commission in progress by RaraHoWa, and I'm ridiculously excited about it. Even though the character on the right is Nan. Fucking Nan. ...this is relevant to this entry's interests, you see, in that Nan was supposed to be with Alara (the stone cold fox on the left) in forevergirl. Yet somehow she is careening around Greywater making my life hell.

This is somehow awesome.

...so, let's get back to the awesome?

"It's like being in charge of a special school on a day out!"

When I went to the Millbrook a couple months ago, I had dinner at the Millhouse -- and as I had gone away for some peace and quiet, I had taken a good chunk of the manuscript of The Neverboy in order to do some editing. At dinner, I entertained myself between courses with said manuscript. For the last three weeks, I've relived that dinner by having Saturday's lunch at a restaurant while reading and scribbling with my big red pen. I also did this in Wellington three weeks ago. It's actually really lovely, despite my ongoing problems with food and weight and whatnot. One place, too, is actually somewhere I regularly walk past on my weekend wanderings, so incorporating a stopover there into my walk -- and lengthening it afterwards -- was really very, very lovely, especially as I usually spend my walks mulling over characters and storylines.

So, this Saturday I toted the prologue of the forevergirl along to a pseudo-English pub and worked through that. It was an interesting exercise in that I knew the prologue really didn't make a lot of sense in the new context of the novel. When I wrote it last December, I had assumed I wouldn't be writing the actual novel for a long long time and was doing it mainly because it took place during Winter's Heart, which is sort of the closest Sarinian equivalent to Christmas (although it's more just a mid-winter festival of food and gifts; it's not strictly religious, but then for a lot of people these days Christmas is fairly damn secular anyway). Things have changed since then, of course -- not only did Arosek and Ryenn shoehorn themselves and their damnably complicated friendship into the novel, but the Dragon and its drug-fuelled dream-devouring dramas turned up out of bloomin' nowhere, and Alara recently informed me that Nan is going to be in this novel too. Nan. I'm terrified of Nan. I'll have to introduce you to her someday. When I'm not terrified of her. Which might be never, come to think of it. (...oh, God, iTunes is, like, reading my mind and playing me Gay Bar as I write about Nan. Shit. She's totally going to start that nuclear war, isn't she...?) But...yes. I had to rework the introduction before I could consider writing the first chapter, which I really need to do if I'm to stop Arosek and Ryenn running off with the whole damn book.

Er.

So, yes, that was lovely -- but then I came home and realised that I had two short stories that I really had to finish this weekend. One's something for a local short story competition, the other is part of a trade, which is something really quite interesting I'll talk about in a minute. But I have to mention the competition first. I always have incredible trouble writing for competitions -- partly it's because I have great trouble writing to order, but it's really the wordcount that tends to trip me the hell up. I'm still surprised Tea For Two didn't get banhammered for its incredible length, but then I think it got through on the strength of its atmosphere anyway. But yeah, this competition was for four thousand words; the current first draft is closer to 4.1k, but I can knock that down. I think. Ha. It's really very funny, though, how long it took me to write this story. It's not actually something I dreamed up for the competition, it's more that the competition finally gave me an excuse to write it. Even though I am riding very close to the deadline. (Which is Friday...) It was directly inspired by a song, actually, and when the competition is all over I think I'll go over the genesis and the development of the story. It'll be fun! (...I swear.) But the fact that I actually have something to enter is achievement enough, as I originally thought entries were due at the end of June and I was far too wrapped up in my zombie headstate to do a damn thing about it then.

...which reminds me, in a roundabout way, that I am still far too intrigued by one Kaworu Nagisa, which has led to the discovery of a tumblr that gives me ridiculous pleasure. I just couldn't resist something that included the description of "My hobbies are cooking and being sad." Oh, Shinji. I am a Bad Person, honest. But I just love this thing to pieces. For all it is obviously parody and satire, they really do nail Shinji's character.

But to get back on topic (topic? what topic?) I'll speak a bit about the other story I wrote this weekend -- I just finished the first draft, actually, and with any luck I'll be able to give it a decent edit tomorrow night and send it off to Neme-chan. It's my half of the trade I mentioned above, and it's been...an experience! Neme-chan is an artist over at deviantart I met via a friend from IRG (which is basically My Happy Place); I commissioned her a few times, and I've posted the results of those here a few times. She's really very, very talented and I adore her style. Because she was doing original characters for me, I ended up sending her snippets of stories involving said characters, and she enjoyed my writing style enough to offer up a trade idea -- she would draw something for me, and in return I would write something for her. We decided to do this quite a few weeks ago, but between her exams and holiday and my own wallowing in Cooking And Being Sad, we hadn't really got started on it until a couple of weeks back.

So, I got about fifteen hundred words done last weekend and figured I would plot out the rest properly this weekend, but then Neme-chan sent me my completed half and I freaked out completely. I was determined to stop dragging my heels and just write, no matter my mood, and...here we are. I can be really slow, you see, for all I am by nature a prolific writer. I mean, I wrote over a hundred thousand words last November. I could have written more. I just...have a bitch of an inner editor and therefore find it very hard to write at all some times. Or most times. But I was writing for someone, and I knew it was time to stop listening to the Inner Editor and just go for it.

It was a really interesting experience, as I've said. The characters I wrote for are original creations, and I am also unfamiliar with the world they were created for. Essentially I worried that I was totally God Moding the whole thing, but after a positive response to the opening I've totally let loose on the rest of it. I can but hope she likes it as much as I do the picture she sent me in return. ...to give you a visual, this is basically what I did when I opened the attachment in my email:

Daaaaaaw. No, honestly, I was gobsmacked. The two characters in question have been in my mind since I was twelve or thirteen or something, and though I never quite seem to finish their story, I am trying. Hibernaculum, the latest incarnation, is OH SO CLOSE. ...of course it needs to be edited the hell out of, but never mind. Having a draft is the first damn step, and it's further than I usually get, so...yes. But I figure I might as well close this entry with a little snippet of my bbz, and then you can see for yourself how talented Neme-chan really is. ...and while you do that, I will go hold myself to my end of the bargain. And pray that my dribble will make me as happy as did her scribble. <3

When she chanced a glance sideways she found him smiling, tremulous and quiet. He then reached forward, the touch of his fingertips light upon her cheek. “He said you weren’t beautiful, didn’t he?” Zurin mused, and though Luchandra thought she should have blushed, to hear him acknowledge so the fact he had seen the dance of the gods, she pushed it aside. She’d always known. He’d given her the lullaby. And then his smile deepened, sad and yet tinged with the faintest hope; it stirred her own even as he leaned back, shook his head. “But you are. You are so beautiful.”

“And you have more power than you know,” she whispered in return. “You saved me, then.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You did.”

“If only we’d met under other circumstances.” Zurin tightened his hands on his knees, gave a short laugh. “Then I suppose under other circumstances, we never would have met.”

“Maybe not.” Luchandra looked again to the butterflies, wondered what warding power they had; surely they were from the East, the land of the air-goddess. She was not their patron. But then, their earth-god cared much for their protection any longer. “I wonder if it even matters, though.”

“It matters.” She turned, surprised by the sudden ferocity of his words – but the kiss shook her deeper. Though it felt very different to the pressure of the earth-god’s kiss when the fire-lady had blazed within her, lacked the taste of metal and snow, she still shuddered beneath it. Zurin drew back as if stung, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry.” And she could see he was, could see he was just as surprised by his actions as she. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean…!”

“I don’t mind,” she said softly. “I was just…surprised.”

“I still shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?” Bitterly she spoke, even as the memory of his swan-song sent a shiver down her spine. “They took their comfort. Why shouldn’t we have ours?”

Zurin stared at her, so long that she felt as though the world had stopped. “Do you really mean that?”

“Maybe we would have met no matter what.” She bit her lip, and then laughed, wild and careless. “Maybe this is what they talk about, in the stories, when they speak of destiny. It’s the world bending to the path of love and desire.”

He shook his head, but there was clear wonder in his gaze. “You can’t love me. We’ve only just met.”

She smiled. “And perhaps we’ll never meet again. Isn’t that why we should do this?”

For a moment, she thought he would draw back. Then he laughed, too, and for the first time she heard genuine joy in his voice.

“You’re mad, you know that?”

“I just like a good story,” she said, and reached for him. “You know…the kind with a happy ending?”

“This isn’t the ending.”

“We can still be happy,” she said against his lips. “If only for a little while.”

Words by me, picture by Neme-chan. <3

"SON! There better not be any WALKING DEAD up there!"

I keep fading in and out of radio silence right now. Life as it is? Is just not conducive to good writing. It's hilarious in hindsight, though, in that I tend not to write as much when I'm genuinely happy, but when I am depressed I also am completely unable to write. There's some sort of bizarre middle ground here, although right now I'm dipping in and out of that space like a plane that's lost its hydraulics.

I've also been distracted by various things. For whatever reason I decided to make a terrible mistake and actually play Amnesia: The Dark Descent myself; several heart attacks later, I am halfway through the game and have hit SAVE AND EXIT in a blind panic more times than I care to remember. I am now very much in the mood to write horrible Lovecraftian stories. Thank you so much, Alexander, it's much appreciated. [rolls eyes] It's not solely the fault of the game, mind you; a couple weeks ago marked the Australian release of the DVD for the second of the Neon Genesis Evangelion rebuild movies. Given the story's inherent fondness of Eldritch Abominations, you can imagine it fit rather well with my mindset. Also, I've been near-suicidally depressed over the last month or so. Re-watching The End of Evangelion certainly doesn't help this sort of thing -- we must consider the infamous Komm, süsser Tod sequence, though Rebuild's Today Is The Time For Goodbye is going to give me almost as many nightmares as the actual Dummy System itself -- but it does tend to make the whole thing resonate in a way that it won't necessary do when you're in your happy place. And so, I have the urge to write some very dark stuff.

...with that said, we have a nice bit of irony in that because the other day? I wrote something quite fluffy. I defend myself by pointing out that said fluffy snippet is a dream sequence and comes into the story in a fairly creepy sort of fashion, not to mention the entire underlying backstory makes the whole thing more tragic than terrific, but there you go. I finally wrote something fluffy. But in the way of such things, the character who brought all this about is really disturbing me something chronic.

I often don't remember creating characters. I can explain the origins of some of them, but a lot of the time they just sort of...saunter into my head and do whatever the hell they want to do. This is probably one of the main reasons I tend to talk about them as people; I really don't feel like I have much control over most of them. And this is certainly true of my latest character, who is simply called the Dragon and is turning out to be something of a pseudo-Eldritch Abomination. What even is that thing. [facepalm] There was also Additional Hilarity when I read the first thing I wrote with this character to my spec fic writing group and concluded with OH MY GOD IS IT JUST ME OR DOES THE DRAGON TOTALLY SOUND LIKE A DRUG ADDICT. ...and this is a children's story. (Supposedly.) Then again, one might say I am simply following in the illustrious footsteps of one Lewis Carroll. Or Walt Disney. Er. Still, I really have no clue where the Dragon came from or what it even thinks it's doing. It isn't helped by the fact that said Dragon is apparently a literal Dragon, from some of the leading nonsense it's been spouting between all the creepy drug-fuelled nonsense it usually indulges in.

Yes. This is my mind not on drugs. Go figure.

I do love the enigmatic characters, though. (Not that the Dragon is strictly enigmatic; I have the distinct impression it's actually far closer to just being downright Ax Crazy. One can but hope that it won't pull a Jamie McDonald on me and go both feral and Fax Crazy into the bargain.) As I said above, I've been watching various canons of Evangelion recently and reliving my love for one Kaworu Nagisa. He's more plot device than person -- after all, in the original series he gets approximately sixteen minutes of screentime, and yet manages to screw up Shinji even more. I know that sounds like shooting fish in a barrel, but it's honestly a pretty heroic effort. But seeing Kaworu in Rebuild is an interesting experience. Again, he's not around very much -- but three of his lines make for interesting theories. In the first movie, he refers to Shinji as "...the Third, again?" In the second movie, he addresses either Gendo or Fuyutsuki as "father" (with that said there is another possible reason for using the term, although Kaji didn't give Gendo the embryo of Adam in this continuity...that we know of). And then at the end the usually very mild-mannered Kaworu has the most deliciously disturbing look on his face when he tells Shinji that "I'll make you happy...this time." It gives one the distinct impression that Kaworu is not only leaning on the fourth wall, he's kicked the bugger over and is lobbing the bricks at anyone who comes close enough to see what in God's name (OH GOD THE IRONY IT BURNS) he thinks he's doing.

(As a side note, every time I watch the end of the second movie I can't help but tilt my head sideways at the "halo" you see with both EVAs involved in the worst of it all. I keep thinking of the angels in Bayonetta, I suppose. Although let's be honest with ourselves and admit that not even Hideaki "...more fanservice next episode!" Anno himself could ever out-fanservice that damn game...)

I've never been a huge fan of Evangelion. I first watched it in 2001 and was horribly confused by the rather infamous Gainax Ending. I found this distressing, actually, because I like being mind-screwed. My favourite anime is actually a lovely little trip into Mindfuck Manor by the name of Shoujo Kakumei Utena, but while being trolled by Ikuhara is practically my life's calling, Hideaki Anno really didn't press my buttons. But Rebuild seems to have caught my attention where the original anime did not, and I actually read part of the manga the other day. I now have four volumes winging their way over from Japan, but...yeah. From what I understand, in all of the numerous alternate universe canons of Eva, Kaworu has a habit of appearing if not omniscient, at least aware of the fact that all these parallel universes exist. That's a really fascinating position for a character to be in, I think. It's probably not something I could explore easily in my own work, but I do find it fascinating...if only because the Dragon appears to exist in a different circle to the other characters in my latest attempt at a novel. It's not removed from the situation, but it certainly seems to think it's not directly part of it. Huh.

But I'm home sick this afernoon and writing this is really beginning to give me a headache. I ought to take a nap, or something. But really, I do need to do some more writing. I almost managed to sketch out Hibernaculum in its entirety, which amazed me. And forevergirl just keeps surprising me. And then I really need to Lovecraft the dark meanderings out of my mind, so...I don't know. Let's meet the Dragon, shall we?

*****

“Of course it isn’t fair. I rather thought myself that that was the entire point of the thing.”

Tara’s head jerked up. No longer standing beneath the hanging forest of imprisoned dreams, she found herself lying upon the floor. The Dragon held the dream-case in its small hand, looking at it critically as it held it up to the light. It remained thankfully closed, and then it turned an annoyed gaze upon her.

“Well? What did you think?”

“I…” Tara swallowed hard, throat parched. She did not wear the black gown nor the lace mantilla, but the weight of both lay like a familiar ghost upon her flesh; it made it hard to stand as she pushed upward. Her whole body felt wracked by tremors, as if she had survived the strongest of winter storms, and she swayed as she rose.

“Are you quite all right?”

“No.” Pushing her hands back through her hair, she looked up with haunted eyes. It was impossible – it had to be impossible, she’d only just seen the First Consul herself! – but she could not dispel the deep fear curled about her heart so easily. “That…never actually happened, did it?”

“Of course it didn’t. It’s a nightmare, isn’t it?” The Dragon’s annoyance lifted only as it thought upon the gauntlet Tara had walked, and it smiled in deep content. “It’s a very good nightmare, though. I’ve told you already, but I’ll happily tell you again – I cannot wait for the day when I finally give in and let myself devour that one. Oh, the agony of it, rushing through my veins! I won’t be able to move from this place for days. I’ll cry and I’ll sob and I’ll wail and I’ll rant and I’ll scream until I have no voice and it will be so very deeply completely totally wonderfully exquisite.” Only then did it sigh, satiated by thought alone. “I want it so much.”

And Tara closed her eyes, her heart coiled in pain. “He’s not dead. He’s not dead.”

“Of course he’s not dead.” Irritated again, the Dragon flicked her with its tail, snapping her eyes open. “How many times must I say it? It’s a nightmare, you foolish girl. And in fact what makes it such a wonderful nightmare is that it is the Dreamer’s worst fear.”

Tara looked down at her empty hands, the realisation harsh. “Lord Rendran is most afraid of losing Lord Arosek...?”

“Actually, I’m telling a little bit of a lie. It’s not such a wonderful nightmare just because it’s his worst fear. It’s powerful because it is his worst fear combined with his greatest love. The loss of his greatest love, even. And the hate that comes out of that…” The Dragon did an odd little twirl, the claws of its unnatural foot scraping the stone with a shriek that sounded almost human. “Yes! It’s wonderful! You see such purity of emotion, such raw expulsion of everything within one’s own heart so very rarely…I paid very dearly for this dream. I regret not a moment of it.”

Tara’s head snapped up. “He loves him?”

“Of course he does. It was why I wanted to show it to you.”

The withering tone of its voice could not shield Tara from the horror of what she had seen. She had dreamed of love, like any other girl her age. Even though she had grown up in the shadow of parents and their peculiar marriage, she had always thought of love as something to search for, to hold close and treasure once found. But in the face of the sorrow she had seen in the Sanctuary she wondered at the wisdom of such an action. “Is that what love truly is?”

“It’s what his love is,” it pointed out, pragmatic to a fault. “But then I can’t pretend to really understand. Dragons don’t love. We haven’t any need to. That’s a mortal thing.” It seemed almost wistful, reaching upward to set the dreams swinging. The chime as they clashed against one another made Tara wince anew. “Why else would we devour the dreams of mortals? We have no other way of knowing what such things are.”

SAVE AND EXIT

I haven't been doing a lot of writing recently. My brain has really decided to go and throw a temper tantrum, and even though writing can be extremely therapeutic for me, I haven't been able to concentrate on it. It's getting to be late afternoon here and I haven't done any writing whatsoever, but I have managed to tidy my room and that...felt like a massive clear-out. I've had a lot of things on my mind, and doing this seems to have helped. We'll see, I guess?

One of my main procrastination tools the last couple of weeks has been watching walkthroughs of Amnesia: The Dark Descent; even though I swore I never would, I also ended up downloading it yesterday on Steam. I've officially played forty-five minutes and am so terrified I can't go on. Ha. Why is this relevant to my writing? I keep thinking, as I've said before, that I should write something Lovecraftian. But wandering around Brennenburg actually led to my brain inventing a history for the house that Anja and Ryennkar are raising their children in, and I think it is going to play a large role in the forevergirl. Actually, I am becoming more and more surprised by how big a part both Arosek and Ryenn are going to play in the entire novel. Huh.

Aside from that, I've been working on the editing of The Neverboy while working out on my stationary bike; I'm almost through the last two thirds of the book. Then I have to go back to the first ten chapters and fix that. I'm planning on printing it out and taking it with me on the plane rides to and from Wellington Monday next, if the volcanic ash doesn't ruin it first. I have to go up there to have biometrics done, which is going to take all of TEN MINUTES WTF. Ordinary I would have this done in Christchurch, but...Christchurch's CBD isn't really there anymore. Speaking of which, I live in a country of the most adorkable and charmingly insane people EVER. But yeah, I am thinking that the plane ride will give a good opportunity to just edit, and despite the fact I've had to go back to a very restricted diet because I am an idiot, I think I will have a nice lunch somewhere in the Wellington CBD and work on it then, too. We'll see. Quite what I am going to do with it when I am finished, we may never know. Perhaps I'll try to flog it to an agent when I get to London, I don't know.

I also got very close to the Finishing Frenzy of The Juniper Bones a week or so back. I ended up falling out of the Zone before I really hit my stride, but I still got abour twenty or thirty thousand words and a partially-constructed End Game out of it. I'm hoping that once I finish this edit and a couple short stories and this trade that things will flow again. Speaking of which -- the trade. This is going to be interesting! I've never done anything like it before, and I am hoping that once I've had dinner tonight and finished this little bit of mostly-constructed fluff I can begin to sketch it out. More on that later, I suppose. Right now, I am freezing cold so I want to close all my curtains, leave the lights off, and scare myself stupid. Dammit, Daniel...

Focus

So, I am back in New Zealand and writing-wise? I didn't accomplish as much as I would have liked while I was on holiday, but with that said I was on holiday more or less because I am in the midst of a nervous breakdown and the fact that I have managed to go back to work for the last two days and not run screaming all over again, well. It's a victory? Ha.

But while I was away, I did do some writing and a lot of thinking, and it mostly all came down to that little elusive bugger of focus. I am easily distracted. I write many things simultaneously, both novel-length fiction and short stories, and as a consequence I rarely finish and submit anything. Because I've been in a bad place mentally these last few weeks, I've been thinking a lot about two very ill-starred characters, but Arosek and Ryenn have ended up inspiring a lot of short fiction as well as their own novel-length epistolary thing. But while I was wandering the mangrove reserve in Bunbury every day it occured to me that both characters are now a firm part of the forevergirl, and because of this I've been thinking again about Greywater, and...yeah.

What did I manage to write in the end? A thousand words or so of Greywater, roughly five thousand words of a short story between Arosek and Ryenn called (as a placeholder) In Our Bedroom, After The War, and then I wrote out bits and pieces of four or five other short stories that came to mind. You see what I mean about focus? Some of it was inspired by news of a couple of competitions closing at the end of the month, so...yes. I don't know.

Still, in two days time? It is Easter. I should have had four days in the clear but I offered to come act as second pharmacist on Saturday morning, but it's only three and a half hours out of the long weekend. But what I have decided to do? Is use it to just write. I want twenty thousand more words in Greywater, and I want to finish both A Statue of Us (for the Wily Writer's superheroes competition) and Dream On (for the CONText competition). I'd also like to finish In Our Bedroom, too, mostly because it's a fairly telling moment in the relationship between Arosek and Ryenn. The reason why I like to write them when I'm depressed, I think, is because it just does not end well. But then, it's a bit debatable whether it ever went well one way or another anyway. And yet...they genuinely care about one another, and they need one another. They don't actually spend all that much time around each other once they leave school, and I think that contributes to my fascination with their interactions in later life. Every moment is charged with things unsaid, and it just fascinates me.

I've also been commissioning again, and when I got back from Australia I was delighted to find in my deviantart note box a message that Círa and Otho were done. And it's gorgeous; Neme-chan is unbelievably talent. <3 I have a version printed out and stuck on my wall already, though I will have to get a proper poster version done through snapfish at some point. And today, I got home from work to find that Ryenn and Arosek are done, too. So, to celebrate, I think I'll find a little snippet of the pair of them.


This little bit is from the novella that originally bore the title The Simple Story. It's actually told from the viewpoint of Aleksandr Zaloyo, a former Kearnian noble; he's telling his companion, a former Leiceynan hierophant, what he knows of Ryenn and Arosek, who lived about a hundred years before they did. Aleksandr's understanding of the convoluted history is interspersed with the real story, as the point of the novella? Was to show how the truth and the legends match and diverge. It's a mess, even though the first draft stands finished at twenty-two thousand words (!), but here's a little bit of it anyway. As I said, Arosek and Ryenn? Intrigue me because they are very different people. Arosek loves too much, whereas Ryenn doesn't love at all. But then the tragic thing is that each to each, they are the only ones who can draw the other from one another, if that makes any sense. Arosek can teach Ryenn how to love, but the flip side of that coin is the simple fact that only Ryenn can teach Arosek how to hate.

Though Ryennkar had been the one to be away for three weeks, he offered no explanation. When Arosek looked up to find him standing before him, a ghost come back to haunt the place of its birth, the silence had to be broken first by his strangled demand.

“Where were you?”

Ryennkar did not blink, taking his habitual place across from his friend; it was three hours beyond the time of the meeting Arosek had called upon his return to Erindel, yet he seemed relaxed, incurious in regards to Arosek’s growing agitation. “I apologise for my lateness, as well as for my unexpected absence. I was attending a funeral.”

“A…funeral.” The tense lines of his face deepened, but his dark eyes had widened with curiosity. He knew as well as anyone that the man had almost no family to speak of. “Whose funeral was it?”

“My wife’s.”

“She’s dead?!” Arosek found himself on his feet, directionless and bewildered. “You…why didn’t you say so earlier? I wouldn’t have called you back if I’d known!”

“There is work to be done,” he said smoothly, waving his hand at the abandoned seat, the stacks of paper at every place. “It’s not your concern.”

Arosek did not sit. For long moments of dim silence, lit only by guttering candles and punctuated by the sound of their breaths, he stared from the window of the meeting-room. The others he had called were long since gone, their business conducted without the benefit of Ryennkar Vassidenel, and Arosek Asfiye had never felt so alone.

“Why won’t you talk to me about her?” he whispered to the window.

“You didn’t need to know.” The chair creaked as he leaned backward, the dark robes rustling with a sound too agonisingly familiar. Arosek did not look back at him, not even when he added thoughtfully: “Not that it matters, not now. It is done.”

The coolness of those words made him turn, the words flying from his lips before he had even thought them. “Did you love her?”

Ryennkar’s smooth brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”

“It’s a simple question.”He stalked across the room, his compact form all muscle and motion. He didn’t even know what she had looked like, not exactly – he’d never even met the unfortunate woman! – but he held a picture of her face in his head all the same. Knights and princes were not just the stuff of legend, though Arosek had never needed a white horse, only his hands and his voice. He slammed those same strong hands down on the table on Ryennkar’s right and demanded: “Did you love her?”

He blinked, looked down at the spectacle, but the bang had not made him so much as flinch. “Why are we discussing this?”

“Because I’m your friend. Your best friend.” He found himself shaking, his weight barely supported by his hands, but his voice was as strong and clear as it had ever been. “And I’ve never met your wife even though you’ve been married to her for four years, and now she’s dead and I never will! Does none of that strike you as strange?”

“No.” He arched an eyebrow at Arosek’s answering frown. “To both questions.”

Like a marionette whose strings had been rudely cut mid-performance, Arosek slid to the floor at Ryennkar’s side. His head was aching again. He’d thought three weeks of the rolling hills and great lake at Wendar would have been enough to erase the memory of the three dead men, but then he hadn’t reckoned with the sudden addition of Ryennkar Vassidenel’s poor dead wife.

He spoke only when a hand dropped to his shoulder, though he kept his eyes upon the faded pattern of the rug beneath his knees. “Why did you marry her?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The hand tightened, his touch of the other man’s skin cool even through their clothing. “You didn’t need to meet her.”

“How do you know that?”

“I didn’t want you to meet her.” In one easy movement Ryennkar left his chair, dropping to one knee at his side. The long fingers moved upward, tilting Arosek’s face so that the grey eyes sought his, held them steady. “She’s gone now, Arosek. There’s no need to speak of her again.”And then he stood, a flurry of black and silver, and bowed his head. “I see that the meeting is already concluded. I apologise for my late appearance, but perhaps tomorrow would be a better time for us to discuss the matter in question. I will come to you upon the ninth hour.”

Arosek didn’t stand, pretending to admire the elaborate woodwork of the table leg. He didn’t want to watch the other man go, but a moment later he couldn’t bear not to.

“Ryenn?”

He turned from the door. “Yes?”

Looking at the other man, Arosek found himself wondering again how he could picture the face of a dead woman he’d never even known. “Did she love you?”

Ryennkar blinked. “I don’t know.” The slim shoulders rose and fell. “I never asked.” He closed the door then, and was gone.

The above picture is the commission of the two of them, done by the wonderful RaraHoWa; Arosek is the golden-blonde, Ryenn is the platinum blonde. As I said, it's about the fact that one loves, and the other does not...except when it comes to one another. Poor bastards. I really do love this picture; it actually reminds me a lot of this terrible letter exchange in the same story, where Arosek writes Ryenn a happy, casual, cheerful letter and gets the shortest, curtest, most formal note back in return. Honestly, the things I put my characters through...! And on that note I suppose I ought to get back to writing more of their story -- although to be honest, tonight I think I'll work on Greywater for a bit. The current wordcount is 44,294; I'm sure I can kick it well over forty-five thousand. ...well, once I've done some Zumba for the evening, anyway. I've also promised myself there will be NO BUYING OF PORTAL 2.

...yeah, we'll see how long THAT lasts...

Your Ex-Lover Remains Dead

I can't speak for other writers, obviously, but I tend to find myself that there are bits and pieces of my own personality inherent in all the of the characters I write. Partly it's just a way of getting into their heads; I mean, I do find it ironic that one of my characters, by turns one of the most sane and insane of them all, is basically my sense of sarcasm run amok. (Hi, Morgan!!!) But then, it also comes through in other ways.

Yesterday I spent a good chunk of both my morning and my afternoon out walking. Some of those walks involved me wearing weights around my wrists; they're not particularly heavy weights, incidentally, but they are noticeable. And what they reminded me of? Was Círa DeCameiron, a character of mine who wanders in and out of various novels and short stories. Círa is an elemental of the old order, being that she was around in one form or another before the age of the four cardinal gods of my other world, but one of these gods imprisoned her in what would become the judicial city of Aran Nomese. He thought it was particularly amusing because he essentially made her into a god of death, when Círa's adoptive god-father is as pacifist as can be. But one symbol of her imprisonment are the three tone woven-metal bracelets that she always wears; gold and silver and bronze, all metals from the great mines of the North. You can't always see them, and to everyone else they don't feel or look particularly heavy -- they're in a Celtic-inspired pattern, finely wrought and very light. Except to Círa, they feel like lead weights. I think most of the time it's not obvious, but when she is actually tired they will drag on her...physically, mentally, spiritually. This is likely to become an issue in latter parts of Greywater, but first I really need to finish the first half of the damn novel...


I was thinking of Círa before the weights, mind you -- because one of my walks involved roaming around the largest park in the city, and it made me consider the details of the palace of Greywater. This is where Círa "lives" in Aran Nomese, but again it's a bad joke on Janerin's part; it's actually the deteriorating remains of a palace from the largest city of the water-god's sunken kingdom. Of course it doesn't sit properly in the earth-god's realm, not least of all because it was designed to run off massive aqueducts and be in harmony with the sea around it, but...walking amongst the tall pines in the park, wrapped in the alpaca shawl I found in my mother's closet, I thought of Círa walking in the overgrown gardens of the displaced palace. So...yeah. I have her on my mind right now. I'm not sure if that means I will really get to writing more of her novel, but we'll see.


As I said the other day, though, I also have Ryenn and Arosek on my mind. It's got to the point where I am working on getting a commission of the two of them, though I can't quite work out how I want to see them portrayed. It's not so much their appearances, because I know what they look like. I've draw both of them myself, although only Ryenn ever really came out the way I wanted him to; Arosek's a bit trickier, as while Ryenn's very much a strong and silent watchful type, Arosek's a creature of constant motion. Ryenn's beautiful because of how he is made; Arosek's beauty is much more dependant on the personality animating the person, if that makes any sense. He's nothing special just to look at, but the spirit behind his otherwise very plain and ordinary eyes? Makes him a force of nature. Whereas Ryenn is just...Ryenn, really. In my mind he's like the marble statues in the various annexes of the Louvre; beautiful, bold, and completely beyond the scope of ordinary mortals.


I did come to the conclusion while looking for reference pictures, mind you, that Ryenn reminds me somewhat of Benedict Cumberbatch. I drew that conclusion because I was looking for pictures of Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law from Sherlock Holmes, because there's a no-personal-space buddy-bromance vibe there and I thought that might give me ideas, but then I remembered Sherlock as done by the Beeb, looked up some pictures, and was amused by the fact that the physical contrast between Cumberbatch and Freeman? ...is how I see the physical contrast between Ryenn and Arosek. It's reversed, though, in the sense Arosek, the smaller and plainer of the two, is the forefront and animating force of the pairing. So, it didn't much help except for the fact I've developed a fascination with Benedict Cumberbatch. Although I had already kind of started down that road when I watched Sherlock the last time I was in Australia. Ha.

Still, there was one reference picture I'd saved to my harddrive for god knows what reason months back that I sent the artist, along with some others, and she's latched onto it. Which pleases me, in that I have long been fascinated by this particular picture. We'll see what comes of it eventually, I suppose. In the meantime I really ought to work on writing something. Ryenn and Arosek offer me several writing opportunities; both of them have their parts to play in Greywater, which would also allow me to play with Otho and Círa. Then I could work on The Forevergirl instead, which is the sequel to The Neverboy; I am not really sure how they play into that one, but certainly from what little I've been told already by Tara, Arosek's involved in this far more deeply than I realised at first.


And then, I suppose, there's The Simple Story. This is an interesting concept, for me, and I haven't really decided how to play it. Basically it's the tale of Ryenn and Arosek's messed up attempt at living their lives, but they're not really the ones telling it. Instead it's a collection of short stories, vignettes and outright novellas that act as a sort of...complex history, I guess. It's different characters relating what they know about these historical figures, and it's come about because I tend to write short stories about those two from varying points of view. And then I realised I could draw them together into a kind of compilation. I'm still debating how to do this, but I already have several stories in progress -- there's Círa and Otho after the execution, Aleksandr telling Araben about his country's most infamous traitors, the thrice-great grand-daughter finding the pictures (and toys) in the attic of her grand old family, Kit and what he saw the day he found Ryenn in the Chamber of Mirrors beneath the palace at Greywater...yeah. And over the last two days, my long walks have yielded two more ideas -- the hedgehog story, and then the superheroes story which I will also partly blame on Regina Spektor.

...speaking of songs, there's another one I keep thinking of whenever these two come to mind. Stars, with Your Ex-Lover Is Dead. I think this is twofold; firstly it's the refrain at the beginning. When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire. And then, the first verses...it's a man talking of how he runs into an old girlfriend when they're unwittingly "introduced" by a friend of a friend. He speaks of how they catch a taxi for an awkward silent drive across the city...it's just how it ends: and all of that time you thought I was sad/I was trying to remember your name.

Just...ouch. I suppose it doesn't help that the song also does a neat thing later, where you can take something two ways. I'm not sorry I met you/I'm not sorry it's over/I'm not sorry/There's nothing to say. You could do that last bit two ways, as I said, and the song does both: I'm not sorry it's over, there's nothing to say as opposed to I'm not sorry it's over; there's nothing to say. Ah, the little tricks grammar can play on our emotions, yes? And I keep thinking of Arosek and Ryenn in their last moments, and I wonder which way it went for each of them. I think it's also because I realised at last why they fit together so well, and yet can't ever remain anywhere near one other. They're poles, really: Ryenn is the cliché in that he's not the kind of man who loves anyone, but Arosek is his polar opposite...he's incapable of not loving someone. And that's another story I know I need to write...Anja's recognition of this. Because I know Anja saw it...Ryenn didn't know how to love Arosek his whole life. And at the end, Arosek didn't know how not to love Ryenn, despite everything that happened.

And as they say, when there's nothing left to burn...

Submission: The Last Frontier

It's been a while since my last blog entry, whoops. Of course I can blame Christmas, and to be honest though I had intended to spend today writing my Boxing Day Sale Orgy and then just in general feeling really exhausted after yesterday...meant that not very much was accomplished today. And the next couple of days won't be any better, as tomorrow I intend to mainline True Blood's first season, and on Tuesday I am going to amuse myself with Baking Experiments. On Wednesday I'll be back at work! But never mind; even though the food I ate yesterday has left me quite ill today (I slept very badly last night), I have got something done.

So, the scary thing for me at the moment is actually submitting things. The local competition closed entries on Christmas Eve, so I submitted the two pieces on the 23rd to be safe. I won't hear about it for ages and I fully expect to hear nothing for either, but...I actually submitted comething. \o/ That's...a pretty big deal, for me. Then, on Christmas Day, I got a couple emails from people who'd been reading Tea For Two for me, so the writing I've done today involved reworking that. I've since formatted and spell-checked it in American English, so...it's basically ready to be submitted. I think I'll do it tomorrow. Just...bite the bullet and go for it. Again, I don't expect anything from it, but submitting anything is a terrifying experience for me. The rejection's really the least of it, but...yes.

Otherwise, I have been trying to finish the prologue of the forevergirl since Christmas Eve, being that it was a sort of pseudo-Christmas thing, being set during the Sarinian mid-winter festival. I failed at finishing it until about half an hour ago. Now it is done! ...rough as hell, of course, but it exists and that's always something. I really need to go back to editing The Neverboy now, but...yeah. My wordcount, writing-wise, has been right down the last couple of weeks. But then...Christmas, yeah? I am thinking I will do some more proper writing over New Year, but even before then I have a couple of stories I dug out today with the intention of re-jigging slightly so I can do two or three more submissions before the end of the year. One is a very curious story I wrote years ago, and I don't know that it will work at all, being that it's essentially about sexual abuse. Not that it's graphic, or anything, because the character in question dissociates himself from the entire experience, but...yeah. It made me cry when I wrote it. Which was about six years ago, now. A quick re-read shows it up for being quite rough and amateur in places, but I'd like to tidy it up a little. There's also a funny little Aidan Jannock story, and Aidan...showed up during NaNo, so I think it would be worth a re-work, too. The third is a prequel of sorts to The Neverboy, and is about Leyen's marriage to Eleni, so...we'll see, I guess. I was going to mess about with them tonight, but I seriously got about five hours sleep last night so I think a shower and an early night is in order.

I had also contemplated colouring with my Copics today, as when I was writing the bulk of this prologue the other day I got quite distracted by Eleni's chosen headdress. She wears varying forms of what is essentially a lace mantilla, which is by society's standards desperately old-fashioned. But she's fiercely proud of her Fynastran heritage and forces her daughter to do the same, even though Tara doesn't much care to be used in that way. I started looking up pictures of mantillas for visual stimulation, and then I ended up drawing a quick sketch of Tara and then Eleni in their veils. I considered colouring them today, but...I've barely managed to keep up with the writing as it is, ha. Maybe over New Year, then? Hee. But yes, this coming year...I need to keep making the effort to finish, and to submit. And if I can tame The Neverboy into a proper novel, then...it's time to start bothering agents. That's scary.

But for now...I need to write. Here's a little of what I was working on, anyway. It's...different to how I usually write, in that it's supposed to be a bit more succinct, but even then...I still do go on and on. ^_~

*****

Sighing, she shook her head, the fine lace of her veil falling across one cheek. She pushed it impatiently back. “I don’t want to go anyway. I’ll just stay here. Tell Mama I’ll be fine.”

In the silence that followed, for a moment Tara dared to believe that he’d actually listened to her. Then she turned and saw his dark eyes staring at her, incredulous.

“I can’t leave you here by yourself!” he said, and she sighed, impatient.

“Why not? I’m almost eleven. I’ll be fine.” Drawing the long veil back over her shoulders so he couldn’t see her face, she scowled fiercely. “I can look after myself.”

“Mama would kill me!” No, she wouldn’t, Tara thought sourly, but he didn’t stop. “And it would be rude; Lady Waleran’s expecting us, and we’re already so late!”

“You don’t care about being rude anymore than I do, no matter what Mama thinks,” Tara replied, and she looked down at the fine weave of her lace mantilla. She hated wearing them, they were so old-fashioned and made her look like a little china doll. But her mother insisted, and before he left, her father always made her promise to mind your mother, won’t you, Tara? “Besides, it’s not like she’s really royalty anymore anyway. Why do we have to keep pretending like she is? It’s just blood, and old blood at that. The kings and queens have been gone for hundreds of years. Why should we pretend like it still matters?”

“Do I have to drag you?”

“You couldn’t do it.” But Tara was certain she’d lost anyway. There was no real reason to stay here in the artisan’s alley of the marketplace, but still she sighed. The bustle and the crush of the marketplace was infinitely preferable over the thought of the dreary high-ceiled parlour that awaited them at Lady Waleran’s townhouse. Though it would be decorated for the mid-winter festival, with great boughs of berries and fragrant leaves, the whole house scented with delicious spices and herbs, and scattered with lamps made of jewels and gold, it didn’t really appeal. Tara had always preferred the Sun-Bear’s Awakening festival, at the end of winter. No gifts would be given nor received then, of course, but it signalled the turn of the seasons. Tara couldn’t wait. She was sick of winter. When it ended, her father would be home, if only for a little while.

Take me with you, Papa, she thought as she let her brother wind an arm definitely though hers, locking them together. I know I’m just a girl, but in the South, the girls are warrior-born. They do what they want. If you let me, I could, too.

Without another word Calden began to expertly weave through the crowds, unerring and fleetfooted. She let herself be pulled in his wake, her mantilla fluttering behind her like the delicate feathers of a baby bird. There were so many people, and she looked around in half-curiosity as her brother pulled her along. The scents of holiday food were strong in the air, sharing space with the vague panic of last minute shopping. The festival’s greatest height would occur the next day, though today there were still shows already on the raised stages and platforms about the plazas. Her feet picked up the rhythm of one song, lost it as Calden pulled her along, and away.

They wouldn’t see any of those shows tomorrow, either in the morning, the afternoon, or during the great shadow-raising of the evening. Their family always kept to the house, for they would have a steady stream of guests and tenants all day. Much as she liked the people here, Tara hated Winter’s Heart at Tiarenna, whether or father was there or not. Her mother always dressed her like a doll in silver and white. Hidden beneath her veil, she always felt that while her mother looked a queen, she only looked like death. As far as she was concerned she never needed to be there. She was just the daughter of the Lord and Lady of Tiarenna: too young to be part of adult conversations, and too young to be courted. She was just a doll, pretty and useless, and suddenly she had never been so very tired of it all.

*****

Distraction

I always get really agitated when I want to write, but can't seem to concentrate on doing so. But then it's been One Of Those Days at work today, and I've been finishing a few things over the last few days. It must be partly the Magic of NaNo, and then just December in general; it's the time for things to finish, isn't it? And then, a time for things to begin...and as it stands right now, I am hoping next year will finally be the year I start doing something serious with my writing.

With that said, here I am procrastinating. Yet again. <g> I have achieved a few things over the last couple of days, mind you; I finished the short story Tea For Two and then I reworked and edited Sin of Seven slightly. Tea For Two is now away for sense-checking with a rather peculiar array of fellow writers and/or long term friends, so we'll see how that pans out. I'm horribly afraid that it's a terrible story, but I suppose we'll see? Rachel has inherited Sin of Seven, because she's the one who reminded me that it even existed, so...yeah. I also picked up another very short story to rework -- it's barely eight hundred words, which for me is a small miracle. It's just a vignette about memory and moving on, I think; I called it Entr'acte for lack of anything better (or less pretentious), but we'll see how that pans out. But all of these have destinations in mind, which is...scary stuff.

But then again...I dug up two other stories, also in the hopes of doing something with them. Of An Orrery is about five thousand words long and is technically finished, I just need to edit the hell out of it. Lies In The Land is a story I started writing at the beginning of the year for an anthology entry and never finished. But the concept fascinates me even now, so I am going to try and finish it over the next week or so and then maybe try it for submission along with Orrery to a local ezine and see how that goes. One of my infamous "101 in 1001" goals was to publish a short story, and time's a-tickin' on that countdown clock. I mean, people have been telling me since I was five years old that I am a good writer. So why is it that I am almost thirty and have published nothing? Damn you anyway, Inner Editor.

I should also be editing Neverboy, which I will possibly get to in a minute. But I've been distracted, as I said -- and not just by this motley crew of short stories. The Neverboy has two antagonists, and Ryennkar Vassidenel is the one we'll see again. ...actually, I just realised the other day what the title of the sequel is, and who's going to be a major player -- Tara. The Forevergirl. This is considerably complicated for any number of reasons, not least of all that Tara is dead. She was dead before Neverboy even started. Go bloody figure. Apparently the voices in my head have every faith that I will somehow be able to work around this. O_o

Still, back to Ryenn -- Kit, the protagonist, mostly knows him as the Magistrate-General, and he's a bit of a prick. He basically wants the world to burn. But while Kit, Círa and Otho tend to garner the (understandable) impression that this is simply because Ryenn is a force of chaos (think the Joker in The Dark Knight), I've always known that Ryenn's got a reason. I was just never entirely sure of the circumstances of it.


Which brings me to Arosek.


I've known Arosek and Ryenn for some time. They were childhood "friends," and then ended up both working in the higher echelons of Sarinian bureaucracy. Ryenn's on the justice side, Arosek is in what sort of amounts to the Home Office, or the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Their paths would cross, but not that often. But they...still had a sort of obsession with each other, even though they rarely met after they left school. I also know of their very bad ending, mostly because Aleksandr sat Araben down one day and told him what I thought was almost all of the sad story. But...I just realised that while I knew Ryenn quite well, I was no better than my characters. Because I, too, mostly knew Arosek through rumour and legend, and not through himself. I have the horrible suspicion that I am going to have to write a short story about him from his POV...partly it's because I need to understand what Ryenn is trying to do in order to have The Neverboy pick up resonant pieces of the tune he's got everyone dancing to, but also because I have the sneaking suspicion Arosek is going to wander into The Forevergirl.

...not that he's any good at raising the dead, mind you. That would just make this all too easy...

And on that note? I rather think I need to sleep. If I'm too exhausted to write, you'd think I've be too exhausted to plot, yeah? Too bad it never stops, even when I desperately need to. ^__^