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Sep. 24th, 2006
done and ringing like a bell
Sep. 24th, 2006 09:52 pmYou people have an Indiana Jones fixation. Not that I blame you.
Thirdhop Scarp: 19,300 words. And done. 5,100 of those words were written today. No wonder I feel like my eyes are about to fall out.
It is the roughest of all possible rough drafts, but it is, at least in broad outlines, complete. And I have a week to make it work, and to cut it down to a more manageable size if that needs to happen, too.
[I posted this as a comment in a friends-locked entry elsewhere in LJ this morning, but I'm going to recycle it in lieu of, you know, actual thought processes.]
I was an auditory witness to a mouse-murder once.
Back when Richie was still alive--and for the story to make sense, you have to know he wore a collar with a bell, because he was an escape artist and as dumb as a bag of hammers, and I was paranoid--and we were living in the only place we've ever (knock on wood) had a mouse problem.
1:30 in the morning, I'm lying awake in our pitch black bedroom, wondering what woke me.
jinglejinglejingle
The noise of the cat pattering about.
jinglejinglejingle
What on earth is he doing?
jinglejinglejingleCRONCH
what the blue-eyed FUCK?
jinglejinglejingle
jinglejinglejingleCRONCH
I get up, grope over to the source of the noise, and put my hand down on an ex-mouse.
At which point I curse, loudly, and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mirrorthaw turns on the light.
We dispose of the mouse. I wash my hands like Lady Macbeth. Richie is indignant.
Everyone goes back to bed.
fin
---
It was a memorable experience, though still not as bad as the time I was home from college for Christmas, and discovered the COLD, DEAD squirrel my parents' dog had stashed in the couch.
Thirdhop Scarp: 19,300 words. And done. 5,100 of those words were written today. No wonder I feel like my eyes are about to fall out.
It is the roughest of all possible rough drafts, but it is, at least in broad outlines, complete. And I have a week to make it work, and to cut it down to a more manageable size if that needs to happen, too.
[I posted this as a comment in a friends-locked entry elsewhere in LJ this morning, but I'm going to recycle it in lieu of, you know, actual thought processes.]
I was an auditory witness to a mouse-murder once.
Back when Richie was still alive--and for the story to make sense, you have to know he wore a collar with a bell, because he was an escape artist and as dumb as a bag of hammers, and I was paranoid--and we were living in the only place we've ever (knock on wood) had a mouse problem.
1:30 in the morning, I'm lying awake in our pitch black bedroom, wondering what woke me.
jinglejinglejingle
The noise of the cat pattering about.
jinglejinglejingle
What on earth is he doing?
jinglejinglejingleCRONCH
what the blue-eyed FUCK?
jinglejinglejingle
jinglejinglejingleCRONCH
I get up, grope over to the source of the noise, and put my hand down on an ex-mouse.
At which point I curse, loudly, and
mirrorthaw turns on the light.We dispose of the mouse. I wash my hands like Lady Macbeth. Richie is indignant.
Everyone goes back to bed.
fin
---
It was a memorable experience, though still not as bad as the time I was home from college for Christmas, and discovered the COLD, DEAD squirrel my parents' dog had stashed in the couch.
