â€œPerhaps indeed I was, and perhaps I wasnâ€™t and whatâ€™s dead to the wind and bones?â€ He spoke lightly, but there was a deepness to it that Izzy felt, the way she thought sheâ€™d feel loneliness or sorrow, an ache that stretched from her mouth to her ribs, a twisting line of darkness, hard and hollow.
Occasionally, this book fuckingÂ gutsÂ me. Those are the good writing days.
Averaging about 10k/week on this, and another 5K/week on the 4th Gin & Tonic. I’d like to do more, but then I’d be falling behind on other (editorial-ish) deadlines, and that’s a no-go. Â Still, if I can keep this up reasonably well, the deadlines will come at an easy trot, not a mad, heart-thumping dash.