Enough whining. I bore myself.

The feelings haven’t much changed, but like John Nash and his hallucinated companions, I can choose to ignore them.

The notebook. The notebook.

The notebook glows in the dark.

Bits of characters. Motivations. Suggestions of Why. Roadmarks toward a possible ending. One of the main characters has no name yet. The other does not yet have a face. The lesser characters (and are there—should there—ever really be lesser characters) have found most of the attributes the main two have not. Not surprising. Like a pond that freezes under the irresistible influence of weather, the solid stuff happens in the shallows first.

I am looking for the uses of darkness. The romance of it. I want to spin it into  breathing gold. That romance hasn’t come to me, yet. It will.

I had a year of following my nose…of letting the tale lead me where it would; of living the story from the time I woke to the time I laid down my head, and often in the hours between bedtime and dawn. I loved that life. I prefer that walking dream-state better to the life that the world calls real. But I do what I must.

The time is coming when I will walk with the characters around the clock. I will feel what they feel. The void will fill. I will grow to be a thing greater than myself.

It’s all in the notebook. Nearly 150 pages full and, gladly, no end in sight.

Approaching 200 pages of notes, I am tempted to go back and read what I have gathered out of the air. But I won’t. Delayed gratification is the definition of adulthood.

Damned adulthood.

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