Reverting to the Old Way

The Green Book. Obviously.
I've not made any real big secret of the fact that my accumulation of wordcount has suffered a good bit in recent weeks/months. In general I've not been overly concerned about it. Not every book I write will come pouring out the way my co-write with Aleks did. 'Black' did, in its own way, but it was over the course of a few consecutive NanoWrimo events. And then it took some time to finish, and edit.

I've been trying to draft a scene of a funeral rite for my fantasy novel. Jaedyn is 'burying' (I use the term very loosely) his father. The scene has been a potato chip stuck in my craw for weeks now. I sat out on the porch yesterday evening, and out of sheer desperation grabbed a notebook and pen. And wonder of wonders, words flowed.

It was a relief, actually. Oh, words. On a page. On multiple pages, in fact. They're so beautiful. And the slide of a good pen on paper is … okay I'll say it. Sensual, in its own special way. Probably in a way that only a person with an addiction for writing could viably appreciate or comprehend, but I do love that Zebra with its metal shaft.

And yes, my handwriting is naturally that "sickeningly neat". I can write sloppily, but I have to either focus on it, or be so exhausted that I shouldn't be awake anyways. Look, you can almost read it!

Yes, that is the Latin word emeritus there in the text. My fantasy work is chock full of Latin terms and phrases… Not a particularly nouveau concept, granted, but one I'm finding great enjoyment and meaning in, as opposed to arbitrary creation of random "world-centric" terms. There's deeper meaning to it than that, of course, but whether that will actually come out in the course of the story remains to be seen.

So toward the goal of furthering the word flow (even though it will obviously require transcribing, which doubles the effort involved) I'm off to sit on the porch with my notebook, a cup of coffee, and my Zebra. And listen to some Frank Sinatra. He's singing "Witchcraft" at the moment…