I went running in the rain this morning, the first run of this winter’s season. It reminded me of why I lace up and hit the pavement. There’s a certain pitch of physical misery that I find damn near irresistible, probably because I’m putting myself through it. I’m sure if the zombiepocalypse hit and I had to be physically miserable, I would bitch about it endlessly, even if just inside my own head. Or to my dogs. I am thinking that my zombiepocalypse survival program will include canine support.
Anyway, Miss B and I went running in a cold driving rain and came home soaked and spent. I am relaxed and feeling the endorphins still vibrating in my bones and veins, and she is finally calm enough not to notice when poor Odd Trundles tries to get her to play. On and on we went, and the rain kept most of the idiots who let their dogs off-leash (around schools, for God’s sake!) inside, so all I had to worry about was Miss B’s doggie synapses fusing every time a schoolbus, SUV, or truck went by. I keep asking her what the bloody hell she would DO with one if she caught one, and she keeps giving me this look that says oh, you idiot, first things first…
Even my dog thinks I’m insufferable. Ha.
I am about to plunge into writing the third Bannon & Clare adventure, which means I’m filling my head with tons of Jack the Ripper and Victoriana. I’ve noticed that my spoken language gets far more formal when I’m writing the sorceress and mentath, just like it gets a little more flowery when I’m writing fantasy. I wonder–other penmonkeys, do your verbal patterns change as a result of what you’re writing?
Also, I am thinking about the nature of connection versus consumption lately. Does a lamp spend its light, or does it just shine? *makes face at self*
Eh, my gaze keeps straying away from the screen to the current stack of Jack the Ripper books. I suppose it’s a sign. I don’t even know where The Ripper Affair begins. And there’s some Springheel Jack I should look into, as well as the things that might live under Londinium. Why are we always down in the shite?, Ludovico the assassin grumbles, and I simply grin and inform him that as long as he survives in my books, it’s not going to be pleasant. This isn’t a tea party, you know. It’s a clockwork hell.
Time to start carving and see what peels away from the bone. Over and out.