Actually, I was a big weepy mess the past hour, but I'm still pumped.  Fairy dust from my fingertips, I'm telling you.  Still moderately drecky, but there is a book here.  And dude, it is COOL.  And very touching.  

I'm going to shower, put up a little plastic (brr!  COLD HERE!), knock out another two or three thousand words, do a few errands, maybe run to Indianola, rope the moon, birth a nation . . . . 

Well, today, feels like it.  Aurel.  AUREL.  You are the man.  You and Charles.  My boys.

 I did not know this scene was going to turn into this.  

I did not know this book was going to do this.  

Oh my god.  Well.  I stand corrected, Aurel.  You know exactly what you're doing.  Carry on.  I"ll just sit here and cry.  Don't mind me.

 But the words are coming, so I don't care.  

Well, okay, I care.  It must be the new thing, post holy-shit-last-fall-what-the-fuck, whatever that whole thing did to my writing psyche, that I feel moderately dazed while I write, that it feels insane and all over.  But honestly, there is NO PLOT HERE.  Nada.  None.  It's nothing but nonsense, and so much of it is UTTER DRECK.  If Charles smiles one goddamn more time, I'm going to choke him.  I mean, the flan scene was great, but this is just weird.  

But they're sitting on a star, wondering who made them.  So it's hard to be too pissed off.

Also, talk about cast of four billion.  Holy hell.  Some of these people have to fold into one another.  Somehow.  

The music du jour, however, is Enigma.  Big props to youngdaniel  for saying, "Hey, you knew they had a new album this fall, right?"  because I didn't, and it is fabulous, and I have it now.  I have had an Enigma renaissance, in fact.  Aurel, though, has his own mix.  It's very epic and optimistic and full of hope, with little dark edges.  Right now I am in the middle of this huge sequence where it's he and Charles, talking and talking and talking.  And riding golden dragons to the stars.  (Dan, it was too good not to use.  But no lotus yet.)

It drives me nuts how the story contradicts itself, though.  One minute somebody knows something, then they don't, and then . . . I don't know. Crack.  This book is on meth, crack, speed, and it guzzles whiskey, too. With champagne chasers.

I just don't know.  It's so weird.  It feels like absolute nonsense, end to end.  And yet I keep showing up and birthing another set of three thousand words.

Okay, then.

 You remember those two photos?  This is where they go.  

 Apparently I am back to NaNoWriMo.  This is what happened this afternoon.




I did wonder.  Especially after I saw that James McEvoy photo.  And now Charles and Aurel are walking out across the desert, and Aurel is creating shoes and clothing out of the sand.

The Curio page helped, too.  More on that later.

Damn, that is the fastest from-the-ashes turnaround I have ever had.  Usually when they shut the door, they SHUT THE DOOR.  Aurel, you have my attention.