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Fog, Cobbler’s Bench

Sometimes the stars align, and my once-monthly insomnia (no doubt a hormonal thing) rouses me not at 2am or at 3am, but at 5:30am and I can lie in the dark, thinking, and roll out of bed early because the urge to write is filling me from toes to scalp with raw tingling.

The Muse is a bitch, but sometimes that’s useful.

So I got up, fed the dogs, swallowed my porridge while grumbling about the injustice of having to feed my own meatsack, and made some very, very strong tea. And now I am typing, which is where I longed to be ever since opening my eyes.

It’s quiet outside because of the fog. It’s not quite a pea-souper, wrapping its fingers around each leafless branch; the wind earlier in the week stripped most of Autumn’s finery and hurried her home. Now all I’m waiting for is the rains. Cold, dark, damp, that’s when I’m most productive, lighting a candle to keep the night at bay.

Of course, lying in bed, I knew what the Friar Tuck on a Spaceship scene I was struggling with yesterday needed. The answer arrived on little cat feet like the fog itself, and is one of the reasons I’ve rolled out of bed. And, of course, the storm king and the witch are finding their feet. The witch needs kidnapping, of course, just so I can write the scene with her beating the shit out of thugs in a van and eventually bursting out of the vehicle on a puff of flame and shrapnel, dusting off her motorcycle jacket as the daimon and the storm god arrive to “rescue” her and find out she’s rescued herself, thank you very much, and when’s dinner?

Of course, there’s revisions on The Maiden’s Blade to deal with, too, but those are proving troublesome. I need a certain lord to do something, but he’s proving cagey. Plus, plenty of that book rips my heart out, and I’m already feeling a bit sore and tender in the cardiac area.

So today’s work is cut out for me, and I bend over my cobbler’s bench, cutting and stitching, my fingers pricked and bleeding. Friar Tuck needs to understand just what sort of snake-pit Prince John’s court is, and his crisis of faith–already well underway–needs some higher stakes. I was trying to write it yesterday, but Robin and Gisbourne kept intruding, and I finally had to write a conversation between the two of them. I wanted to do it while they sparred with lightsabers, but I think they need to have a different convo while they do that, an exceedingly male “let’s punch each other and then go for drinks” one.

Dawn has strengthened. Everything is grey, though the cedars are black lacework blots. They’re not whispering this year, having gone to bed early; all the trees round here are determined to sleep deeply. It’s like they sense something coming.

…dear gods, I hope they’re wrong, but they’re trees, and as such, it’s not likely. But for today, there’s work to be done.

Over and out.