Writers are boring when we’re actually writing. I don’t even have any interesting bits of new research to share, or even any cat photos (Boomer, after a rough evening on Wednesday, has been spending most of his time sleeping in the bedroom. Castiel has discovered that Spring! means Birds! and has spent most of the day in the window, bitching because he can’t teleport through glass.)
And me, mostly I’m at the keyboard, bleeding onto the pages. In a good, mostly-productive, and almost-healthy way.
So what’s everyone else up to?
And for those of you who don’t mind reading excerpts from something you won’t see for another 15 months…
â€œSo where are we heading now?â€ she asked, sitting down to wait for the coffee to be ready. He handed her an apple, slightly mushy but still edible, and she ate it, waiting for his answer.
â€œIâ€™d thought to head northâ€ he said slowly. â€œOriginally, take you up to the Lakota and their kin. Iâ€™ve friends there, and they could be useful to you.â€
He glanced sideways at the magician, who was moving through some sort of slow movements, like knife practice without a knife, away from the fire. â€œDevorah said there was trouble south of us. And the storm you saw coming in, it came over the Motherâ€™s Knife, right?â€
She nodded, chewing and swallowing before answering. â€œYes.â€
â€œThatâ€™s here,â€ and he drew a wavering line in the dirt with his finger. â€œThe territory extends here,â€ and he drew another line, â€œand here,â€ and the line bent away from the first line at an angle. â€œThere hasnâ€™t been any noise of unrest weâ€™ve heard, north of here,â€ and his finger rested on a spot in the dirt.
â€œWe havenâ€™t been that far north,â€ Izzy said, then squinted at the makeshift map. â€œI think.â€
â€œYou tell me, then. Is it north of us?â€