Interims

Not much to say for myself; unkindly busy with work and the other work and the novel. The latter part is my favourite. I'm stubbornly making myself take at least a half hour here or there even when I have other things I really, really need to be getting done to go scribble on a few more pages. I still feel very good about it but it is extremely sparse. Realizing all of the things I've forgotten to address, all of those details that make the thing add up to the sum I'm shooting for, makes me laugh. I'm filling pages in the back of my red binder with notes; otherwise reading through and sketching changes and more notes in the margins, apportioning what's read so far into chapters as I go with divider tabs. Need to learn to use Liquid Storybinder.

Shelter

A great rush of wind swept through the broken roof of the once-temple, raising a mournful sussurus that Isolde's ears – so absent from the sound of singing for so many years – harkened to as if it were a phantom choir. The solemn hymn chilled her, but she stood still to listen, holding her breath fast in her chest as she swept her eyes across the front of the church. There, the pulpit where countless priests had conducted sacred masses before the third world war. There, the pews laying evenly alongside one another, backed with risers that awaited the genuflection of obedient faith.
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Huh.

Abstractly, I hope that nobody thinks my fascination with the Doomsday Clock stems from Watchmen. It pre-exists my awareness of either comic or film by a few years, at least.