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Day, things:

Woke up, the roommates had departed.

Went to work. Worked. Started writing a history of my relationships (V. showed some confusion about who my blonder half and That Idiot Shawn were, and what the contents of those relationships were/are like -- being one's muse does not necessarily mean the relationship was good.) in the format Dear you, ..., love, me. Got as far as mostly through That Idiot Shawn (for purposes of clarity, I put Queenie before Shawn) before work let out.

It was exhausting, doing that, but it ate up time and paper like anything. Evidently I had a lot to say.

That's the thing about writing. When you're a writer, you're never empty. Once you think you've emptied yourself of stories, there are always more. Once you've told all your own, other stories start to come. Once you've shed all the true ones, then come the truer-than-true ones. If you think there are no more stories to tell, you're kidding yourself -- there's a big one in there, that right now your pen is too small for it to come out, which is why it's not flowing just yet. Or it's too hard to pull out, too emotional, and you don't want it to come out.

Sometimes you have to hit the writer's block with a hammer.

It's the creation of a linear mind, anyway, the writer's block. You get stuck on a detail when you just need to put in a placeholder and run with it. For whatever reason, the boy in "A Cup of Time" borrowed the short version of norabombay's boy-character -- the "A Cup of Time" boy is Nick for placeholder, but in this case it's short for Nicholas, not anything more esoteric. My girl's name is Katy. They wanted to be redheads but I wouldn't let them, as that was too Heinlein.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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