shadowtricker: (Morpheus considers)
I suspect it's a psychological side effect of writing for a main character suffering arthritis of the hands, combined with the recent cold snap, but it's bloody difficult to type when my own hands are aching. Just this afternoon I was struck with pain all across the left knuckles, which painkillers have failed to erase completely.
Hrm.
I have pass 30,000 at least, and am attempting now the denouement, although it worries me that comes with some 20,000 words left to go in the work. I may still have to go back and expand on earlier scenes, which is a process I've already gone through more than once.

Don't mind the whinging. I'm still happy to take replies on my last post.

On an utterly random note, I took a nap and dreamt of Sam Spade sitting alone in the darkened office after hours, visited by a heavyset gentleman come to squeal that he'd been in with Archer's wife on a plot to murder Archer for some third party who offered a great deal of money. As soon as I woke my mind protested that Archer's wife was only suspected briefly in the beginning of the Maltese Falcon, and turned out not to have anything to do with it.

Additionally: Isn't 'unobscured' a proper word? It is in neither the spellchacker nor our dictionary, yet we've come to a consensus that they're both wrong.
shadowtricker: (book in sand)
It's a rare dream that makes a complete story, a finished chapter that lets you wake when it is closed. This is poorly written down but it hasn't been through any editing and it's past two in the morning now.

I woke with this, this morning. )

I have also, obviously, finally paid for the bloody journal and gotten the layout I was so desperately fond of, only there's no way to change the width of the main section that holds the entries. It seems a waste of space laid out as it is, and it's slightly hard on those of us with already strained eyesight.
shadowtricker: (EDream)
I tried to bite Bridgielove last night, only she thinks it's a bit funny and that I ought to put it up here. She was mucking about on the computer after she came home, you see, and I fell asleep in the chair listening to my Ladysmith Black Mambazo cd's. I was dreaming I was back in Africa, with my mouth full of dust. How could I have forgotten that, how you breathed the dust all the time and it told you things. First we were in the city, where the dust could tell you by taste that a car had passed through recently, and there were lots of people about, buying and selling because it was early morning. Then I was back in the village again, where the dust has this hint of rooibos, and not a trace of anything chemical. Then I went wandering out, past a lion with a fresh kill, and to hear the elephants and that wonderful constant rumble that you don't hear so much as you feel in your bones. Then I realized I was hungry, so I went hunting. I'd picked out a small herd, and I was trying to separate a nice impala off, circling and getting ready to make a flying run at the herd. Then something was in my face, so I snapped, and next thing I knew Bridgie was standing over me and trying to tell me it was all right. I wasn't really awake, and apparently I scolded her and told her I thought she was an impala. She sent me off upstairs to bed, but I got more awake after I laid down, and I really was hungry. I came back down and ate some key lime pie, but it wasn't the same.
I never did get back to that dream properly. The thing that got me awake upstairs was the bloody fishtank filter. My brain refused to resolve the sound of running water with the image of hunting on the African plains.
No harm done, and Bridgie seems to think it's an amusing story, so there you have it.

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