Couldn’t think of a title so randomly punches the phone’s autocue. Sorry about that.
In other news, the day with the Weight Swingers appears to have been productive. Orchid is hopeful that the kids will be properly served by the legal system. She’s my silver lining girl, so it was going to pan out that way. Me, I’m a little older and a lot more cynical so I’ll save the sapphire complexion for a sure thing.
We did get back earlier than intendes though, which was good. I actually managed to get some words down on Wolf Mama. Somewhere along the line I lost my original outline so scribbled down a quick replacement. Funny thing is, I came up with enough material to get a novella from it. Somehow the story has become a lot darker, but the ending feels a lot more satisfactory. Without giving too much away, I think I can capture something resembling the horrors of choice that parenthood thrusts upon you. (It’s only fair to point out the seedlings aren’t ‘mine’, but in the same breath the bloody well are, if you catch my drift).
Anyway, that’s enough from me. I’m off for a snuggle.
Time. Where the hell does it go? I know at least two weeks have vanished since I last updated, but I’ll be damned if I can say where they went! Same’s true for Wolf Mama. Due to various other duties, I’ve not got a word in on that. Poor old Clara is frozen in time, riding back to her cabin with a gun in her hand and terror in her chest.
It doesn’t look like I’ll be getting any work in today either. Long story short but, of course, it revolves around the UK’s
clown show legal system and a rather unsavoury jerk.
Hopefully I’ll be able to steal an hour or two tomorrow!
Right, I have to go get ready.
Wolf Mama is coming along. Things are progressing and I’m happy enough with the way Clara Tao is handling the situation.
Things weren’t quite so smooth initially. The tale jumped into my heald half-formed and wrapped in the accoutrements of Viking lore. Although I loved tales and history of those Dark Age pirates in my youth, the sheen has kinda rubbed off in the intervening years.
I almost ditched the project, chalking it up to another case of brain lock. After walking away from the machine, I decided to pop in on my folks and man am I glad I did!
My old dad is a bit of a Wild West fan. On the day I went to visit, he had camped out in front of the telly and was engrossed in some two-fisted, six-shooting action only slightly younger than his good self. Having inherited the old boy’s love of westerns, I fixed brews and joined him on the sofa.
Turns out it was a great use of time. While I watched some suntanned dude gunning down outlaws, I realised my Viking mamma wanted to be a gun-toting bad ass saving her babies from murderous demons while riding a giant chicken! I have no idea where the chickens came from, but things are going nicely and it’s great to be writing again!
January’s gone. The maddening dance around courts and social services has eased down to a white noise rasp in the back of our heads. Our campaign to keep the seedlings safe from the Corrupter’s influence has hit a quiet spot. January has washed away into the time stream. I’ve got nothing done.
Well, obviously I’ve got some things done. There’s a lovely base in Orchid’s settlement waiting for walls and a roof. Since the day job has been quiet, I’m putting up a nice big wooden structure for her. It’ll help her business no end. She’s over the moon. Books have been read, kids have been entertained and educated. Battle Cat has been to the infirmary so many times we’re both dizzy. She’s okay now. The dogs have worn my legs to bloody stumps along the highways and byways of my forest home.
January was mostly taking care of small things. Important things, but small. The big things, the things I write about here, are another story. My brain’s still trapped in a spot of molasses thick enough to drown my creativity and clog my thoughts. If I’m honest, panic had started to set in.
With no work (long story) and no words, things were looking bleak. Kindle sales had taken a big enough rest to get my pores leaking and my chest poundings. Two years ago I could have wound in the belt and survived off packet soup and cheap coffee. With four extra face holes to cram doughnuts into, that’s no longer an option.
Fear’s a funny thing. It’s a feeling, sure, but it’s also a set of options. Choice one, grab your trainers and head for the hills. Choice two, reach for a mighty great stick and start swinging. I’ve been dodging around the lack of words for a little while now and, since I’ve never been the most physically fit specimen, it’s time to grab a bludgeon and whack away until the words start falling.
I have an idea, you see, and strangely enough it’s about terror and motherhood.