Celadon’s viewpoint always seems to be rather grimmer than Sings-to-Trees–which makes a certain sense, granted the sort of life she’s apparently led–and yet I can’t escape the feeling that she’s got a far more developed sense of humor. Funny how that works out.
I appreciate you guys not nagging me about posting more, unlike some of the people over at DA. *grin* I suspect the community over there is just too large for me to expect the word of the perversity of my particular muse to spread. Oh, well.
People really did use dried corncobs as toilet paper in more primitive times. Don’t ask me how that worked, but internet investigation turns up that apparently it works pretty well, if you’re sufficiently rural to have a stock of dried corncobs on hand.
Also, I have now finally achieved my life-long goal of writing fantasy where people actually go to the bathroom. I am proud. Our realism may fail on every other front, but by god, we’ve got a realistic outhouse!
Who loves ya, baby?
Bonus points to the person who said that she wouldn’t faint until the very end so that Sings-to-Trees would have to deal with the armor again. Someone understands me too well… *shifty-eyes*
Ze saga continues! (Poor Sings-to-Trees. I hope he doesn’t spent the whole story on an all-liquid diet.)
A much shorter installment this time, but Celadon had less to say right off the bat. She’s really more a woman of action.
Don’t worry, I’m not cruel enough to leave you at that cliffhanger for long. Promise.
People wanted to see the meeting between Sings-to-Trees and Celadon Toadstool. This might not have mattered, except that I wanted to see it too.
I cannot say that it is a good story. It rambles badly. I cannot even say it will be a finished story–y’all know me and my perverse muse by now. I can say, with some confidence, that it would be a love story, which is most of the problem, because I have little experience with writing such, and I suspect anything I came up with would be tacky and awkward. And also that my buddy Deb has a lot to answer for.
I am willing to take a stab at it, so long as my muse lasts, because most of my memories of falling in love were actually that it was rather tacky and awkward. But I can’t promise much. This feels less like writing a normal story and more like writing fan fiction about my own characters, if that makes any sense. So expect something rathered hackneyed, because this is ground I do not know well enough to avoid the obvious.
My agent says it’s fine to post writing on-line, and won’t make trouble for us in the future, so hey, what the hell. Besides, this isn’t likely to ever be something a publisher would want, unless the previous book–the as yet unfinished goblin one–saw print, and even then, I don’t know.
I don’t promise it’ll be good. I don’t promise it’ll be finished. I especially, and absolutely, cannot promise it’ll have a happy ending.
You’ve been warned.