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Some Kind of Post

Finished writing a short story, which was a nice break from the book I'm writing. Some days I wonder about all the wisdom of doing this, of writing and struggling, writing and struggling. I mean, I love the writing, but my love of the business is fickle and moody at best. But then, I always thought being a down and out artist would make sound good at parties.

It's a real shame the only parties I go to are filled with down and out artists.

Ah well.

Back to the book. I've had a number of titles for it. I go to a different one every month and I currently have forty five thousand words done. The current title is The Godless. I honestly can't tell you if it will last.

Here's a bit I was working on:

“My apprentice...”

“Ayae?”

“Yes.” For a moment, he paused, hesitated, as if he knew he was crossing a boundary, and that his next words, once begun, would change a part in him. “She is a very angry young woman right now.”

“I've helped her enough.”

“With the wrong people whispering in her ear, she could believe that she is a god.”

Zaifyr laughed, but stopped suddenly. “You believe that, don't you?”

“She would not be the first.”

“No, she would not.” Against the wall, the lamp sputtered, the fire rising for just a moment. “She seemed like a smart girl to me. I don't think she needs me to watch her.”

“Oh, that I will not disagree with,” Orlan agreed. “However, I would like to think that her introduction to whatever touch of god is inside her is not done by men are borderline sociopaths, or by the priests who ride up this mountain in search of something to make into an idol.”

“Why not you?”

The small man's smile was faint. “I have other plans.”

“Then why me?”

“For the Fifteenth, for what he wrote about you, a man who was haunted by every man and woman he met, a man who believed, despite this, the universe was infinite, that fate was our own, that redemption was available to us all.”

“I killed him,” Zaifyr said quietly. “He and his family and the entire neighbourhood he lived in. You know that, don't you?”

“As you say, you are a different man, now.”


By the time I'm finished with the book as a whole, it will no doubt be a different looking conversation, but that, of course, is what there is to love about writing. Everything changes.