Yet life is cyclic in so many ways, and Mercury relented at last. I could almost feel the floodgate giving way, the surge of words scourging away the residue built up by weeks of frustration and headdesking.
Of course, the parameters of my upbringing demanded this sort of pagan resonance receive disbelief and an "evil" label, so despite the years and distance between us, I still doubt the influence of the natural order of things. Right up until the evidence is as undeniably present as this. Like a slap to the face.
The past week has seen more than just a decided warm/sunny trend and the thawing of the ice flows in the right side of my brain.
It's been a week of profound, decisive actions as far as my stories and writing career are concerned.
|Not just any cookies though.|
No, not just any cookies. Big Soft Ginger Spice Cookies, a Haus of Rhi specialty. With Hershey's Special Dark cocoa powder sprinkled on them. Let's all drool for a moment, shall we? Because these things? They might not look like much thanks to my shitty photography skills, but by the All-Father. They rival Loki for sweet, sweet divinity.
[wipes drool from chin] Okay, back to the writing things now:
I'm plotting my publications for the coming year. Yes, a bit late out of the starting gate, aren't I? As it's already March and whatnot. Did I mention winter and I don't get on well? I did? At any rate, there's this anthology piece -- I swear, it's almost done, I have to change a sea monster into a dragon, scorch a pod of orcas, and reorder the scene where someone's brains melt out their ear canals so that it doesn't make the rest of the ending feel anti-climactic in comparison -- and then I've got a very huge fantasy series that is taking shape, finally finally finally, into a self-publication project. My first. In all probability, the first of many to come.
And then Red still wants to talk to me. Though I can't imagine where she's found the patience. Darning the holes in her argyle thigh-high stockings, I expect.
And then Mike has decided that retirement just makes him restless. The wide open spaces of his family ranch just trigger old traumas on top of the new and make him smell blood-soaked Cirokkan soil all over again. Add to that the fact that Sergei has no idea what to do with himself; the prospect of freedom is terrifying to him the way an animal who's only ever known a cage or crate is fearful of wide open spaces. Like living rooms. Never mind yards and free range prairies.
Yes, you read that right. I expect there will be some "Adventures of Nikishin's Brain" involved, at least peripherally, and all this is of course very informal, but The Sequel cometh. At last, behold, the apocalypse is surely bearing down on us.
Any moment now.
Any moment now.
Oh well. Come on by and have a cookie then.