The Stars and the Cookie Jar

Gurgle. My head, for some reason, is in Vilna all the time now; the damn stories just want to be written, I suppose. But there are other things going on, and work, and I'm going out to Random, CA (actually, it's called Piedmont Park) to interview at a store there April 15-17. Everything is shaken up. Weather's ghastly, which helps with that Ghettomensch mentality; I have eye strain and my boss's boss's boss is coming to the store tomorrow. And I need to finish The Graves Growing Here tonight, or go mad.

Mostly because I need to go on to the story after that. And when I say need, I find I mean it; I'm taken by the work and it won't let me go.

My muse is a slave-driver.

Thanks, Sonya, rymenhild , everybody. It will be Done soon. And when it's Done, I'll probably let myself weep for these people, who were the finest, the brightest, and are gone.

Finished 'The Graves Growing Here'!

I want to throw my head back and ... sing. It was giving me such problems, because it contains infamous historical events that I needed to treat properly, and because it has a character death.

...by 'finished', I mean, it goes now to await the line-editors when the Thing is Done.

Two more stories to finish now: 'Easy, To Die' and 'When The World's Gone Away', whose title may change if I decide to epigram it with the Kruk poem, but he does this weird amphibractic thing that's hard to translate.

And because I really think I'm borrowing some sort of divine fire and ought to use it, I wrote these to go between the stories. They're for character, basically, and they match the style turn I took with the Prologue, and... they were here.

( the interstices for the Vilna stories: no sex! no death! no dialogue! )