On each hastily torn slip was written a spate of words. Some jumbles of
letters were no longer than a single sentence. Most, however, were large,
involved knots of script with the names “Sam” and “Brevyn” being the only words
recognizable to a sane, uncluttered mind.
Alas, there no was no sane, uncluttered mind present.
Only me.
Only Chloe.
With Book Two of “The Lion and the Steed Series” tossed before me like
leaves from a storm, I sat on my imaginary floor in my imaginary room ten thousand
times larger than the sun trying to piece together a single novel from a
hundred little tales.
Hours passed.
Spent Prozac leaked out of my ears.
Even my dog had deserted me for a furious tongue-lashing at the cat
across the street.
Slowly, however, against all odds chapters began to grow out of loose
paragraphs.
Storylines found direction and spirit as they hesitantly started to
weave themselves together into a novel that just might not only make sense, but
a novel that just might be darn good.
As the shadows grew long and heavy across the marble floor of my mind
and my computer screen, nearly half a sequel was born.
Exhausted and still covered with afterbirth, I crawled to my tiny
garden in my tiny backyard. And then with the last breath of sanity, I grabbed
a pot and some dirt and planted my mother her longed-for Dill…
*the curtain slowly lowers as the
house lights dim*
No this is not some nightmare or some mental hiccup of a really scary clown.
This was my Wednesday, with only a few embellishments added to cast proper
light on the utter ridiculousness of my existence at times.
And yesterday was a good day, a fruitful day which bore well-organized
smut and Dill.
*pauses pregnantly trying to come
up with some insightful conclusion to this blog, to this story, to this life…*
Yeah, ok, I’ve got nothing.
Have a dilly of a day, everyone.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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