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Today was a good day. Not a cloud in the sky, and not a worry on my mind. I've got tea, chocolate, and Gobstoppers near to hand, and life is grand. I've been ficcing today, and though I'm not going to discuss specifics of the plot goblin, lest I kill it, it's marvelous to get back into the lulling, dreamy swing of writing well. It's an endorphin rush comparable to, or better than, sex, and man on fire, have I missed it. Suffice to say that it is set in the HPverse, and you might see it someday soon.
SLS 51 is still grinding along, so fear not on that score. It just needed to be left alone so the boys in the basement(I will ever be grateful to King for that whimsical personification of the imagination and the writing process)could shuffle the furniture a bit. Lucius is talking with his mysterious informant, Dumbles is conferring with Snape, and Draco is having paroxysms of triumphant smugness in the Slytherin dormitories. They are all just on a well-deserved pumpkin juice break while I tinker with the plot goblin that has so suddenly come to fruition two and a half years after a careless challenge seeded a forgotten and neglected patch of soil.
On a fandom-related note, I pre-ordered HBP at Borders even though I'd pre-ordered a copy at Barnes and Noble as soon as it was possible to do so. The Borders is located beside a Best Buy, Barnes and Noble, and mall, and that way, if they can't fill the order, I have other options. Besides, if that doesn't work, there are still a CVS, a Target, and a Toys R Us in the vicinity, as well as a Kmart. I wanted to have all the bases covered, you see. No, I don't think I've gone overboard at all.
Before I sign off for the evening, a correction. The book which has so captivated my attention of late is called, Deadhouse Gates, and it's by Steven Erikson. I believe I called it DeathHouse Gates. I have no explanation for the error; perhaps my myopic eyes were fooled by the enormous black font, or perhaps-and more likely-my brain was canoodling in fantasies of boffing Alan Rickman or riding Colonel Tavington like a bronco.
Oh, great. Now I'm having visions of my brain dressed in leather chaps and wielding a bullwhip, bouncing up and down on the Isaacs family legacy as that snipped and clipped throbbing manpole of desire rubs the glistening sweet spot of its turgid medulla oblongada.
Oh, boy, do I need a dose of Librium. Sometimes, thinking is a very bad thing.
SLS 51 is still grinding along, so fear not on that score. It just needed to be left alone so the boys in the basement(I will ever be grateful to King for that whimsical personification of the imagination and the writing process)could shuffle the furniture a bit. Lucius is talking with his mysterious informant, Dumbles is conferring with Snape, and Draco is having paroxysms of triumphant smugness in the Slytherin dormitories. They are all just on a well-deserved pumpkin juice break while I tinker with the plot goblin that has so suddenly come to fruition two and a half years after a careless challenge seeded a forgotten and neglected patch of soil.
On a fandom-related note, I pre-ordered HBP at Borders even though I'd pre-ordered a copy at Barnes and Noble as soon as it was possible to do so. The Borders is located beside a Best Buy, Barnes and Noble, and mall, and that way, if they can't fill the order, I have other options. Besides, if that doesn't work, there are still a CVS, a Target, and a Toys R Us in the vicinity, as well as a Kmart. I wanted to have all the bases covered, you see. No, I don't think I've gone overboard at all.
Before I sign off for the evening, a correction. The book which has so captivated my attention of late is called, Deadhouse Gates, and it's by Steven Erikson. I believe I called it DeathHouse Gates. I have no explanation for the error; perhaps my myopic eyes were fooled by the enormous black font, or perhaps-and more likely-my brain was canoodling in fantasies of boffing Alan Rickman or riding Colonel Tavington like a bronco.
Oh, great. Now I'm having visions of my brain dressed in leather chaps and wielding a bullwhip, bouncing up and down on the Isaacs family legacy as that snipped and clipped throbbing manpole of desire rubs the glistening sweet spot of its turgid medulla oblongada.
Oh, boy, do I need a dose of Librium. Sometimes, thinking is a very bad thing.