Blanket Fort

The “real world” has grown exponentially more depressing and my desire to hide away from it all is hard to deny.

But, as someone occasionally accused of being a responsible adult, I can’t just heed the call of the blanket fort without considering the consequences.

Thankfully, the Muse has finally decided she’s seen enough of the copper coffee pots.

She has taken me back (or is it forward?) to the days after the end of the world: a decade after a few superpowers chose play the very dangerous and deadly game of Whose Bomb Is Bigger, Anyway? and ended up destroying civilization.

Some saw the way things were headed and prepared: shelters were built and stocked and, when the bombs began to fly, evacuations began. Some were barely large enough to keep a single family safe but others were designed to house the populations of entire cities.

Others preferred to stay above ground: to fortify what they could, help each other as much as they were able, and let fate lead them into the future.

Still others blindly trusted in divinity and bureaucracy: content to wait for government assistance and/or the hands of the Gods to scoop them up out of harm’s way.

Survival has done a lot of things to the races that lived here and has, in some cases, made matters worse.

Did I mention the fact that the so-called fantasy races never died out? That some of the largest and most secure bunkers belonged to elvish royals and some of the greatest ground-level safe-zones were built by humans and dwarves working together? What about the…

Enh…

I’ll let you find out for yourself 🙂

Make The Plan, Execute the Plan

It should be simple, right?

It’s time to buckle down and start earnestly working on new stuff.

Words just flowing from mind to page faster than the word processor can manage.

That’s the plan.

Right now.

Any time.

Some time (and a couple website face-lifts) ago, I spoke of my muse’s decidedly temperamental nature…

(I am, of course, being as diplomatic as possible…in case that finicky, selfish, agonizingly contradictory inkblot is currently reading over my shoulder.)

…and how I sometimes had to woo her with coffee, chocolate, and (sometimes undeserved) accolades of adoration and greatness.

Currently, she has me slogging through every old-to-ancient unfinished work she can direct me to locate. She allows me small changes to unimportant details. She even allows an additional sentence or two in the middle of the piece to clean up a scene. But when I get to the end of the draft…

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Still, I try.

I have reached the point that I am emulating my real-life muse (may she rest in peace) and sit typing a tongue-twister buried in my brain from high school drama over and over again hoping the words will transform into something resembling a story.

Or the next part of a half-finished story.

Or anything at all, really, other than A quicker cup of coffee from a copper coffee pot.

Don’t laugh – it’s good typing practice 😛

At least she’s giving me that much.