Writing, But Not Here

A jar of tea and an entire book to write.  I've got no words for this blog, because they're all busy elsewhere.  I wrote the entire first chapter yesterday, and I'm halfway through with the second today.  I doubt if I'll actually get to write this whole book in two weeks, but I might!  :)  Still have some finals and other things to finish up on the side....

So exciting to be writing again.  Sun, you have permission to shine again.  Everything's back to normal!

Funny story :: I had a terrible dream two nights ago....  I dreamed la madre was forbidding me to write!  I got SO mad, SO rebellious, had an absolute fit.  Woke up, and I was STILL mad!  Just furious!  Although it shouldn't have bothered me, because I haven't been writing, like at all... but it did.  And then, lo and behold, I have this story.

Moral of the story :: Mothers are inspirational.

Another moral of the story :: If you can't bear something being forbidden, it's still part of you.

And I don't think I'll ever get around to writing the queued stories...their heyday passes, and I just don't have enough inspi to go back and get re-excited about them.  Sad, but true.  Same thing as how I can't write something twice if the computer kills it, etc.

So I'm off again.  Must. Write.  Must.  Write.  MUST!  WRITE!!

'I slumped onto the floorboards, cushioned by a plush rug.  The smooth fibers felt cold against my groping fingers.  I’d read enough grisly accounts of battles to turn anyone green, but no words could somehow house this terror.  I could still see the midshipman’s wide blue eyes, pale as ice, in my mind.

                “Oh, get that out of here, dash it!” my father’s voice said.  It sounded strained.  I slid forward on hands and knees, pressing my ear against the door just in time to hear a solid thump as a sea boot met something soft and heavy.  The two heavy doors in the next room slammed together.  I thrust myself away from the door, nausea overwhelming me.

                “You didn’t have to kick him,” Papa’s voice spat.

                “What’s wrong, Saunders?” asked another.  He sounded lazy, or unconcerned, his accent less clipped.  “When dead chaps die, they’re no longer chaps, but friends, eh?”

                “Shut up, Campbell.”'

AMZi  x x x x x