I feel doomed to speak mainly with the written word this summer. I just finished hand-writing three letters. Five pieces of stationery total, both sides, in little cursive letters. Last night I wrote more than 1500 words of Erthe: The Faeries' Story, and I completed 2000+ on Saturday. I hope to finish a few more pages this evening, at least enough to get Susan, my heroine, out of the sadness I put her in last night. I am eager to polish off this section of the book and get on into the next, which ought to be entertaining - Pharr the phoenix training her in the lost faerie arts. Turns out that Erthe is in a bit of a dark age. All the good civilizations have in general forgotten their roots. Turns out they will have to find them again, because the world is about to undergo a war. And I am the one who gets to write it! *rubs hands together and grins*

Being a writer is joyful when all goes well. When the words refuse to come properly, or one suffers spells of doubt as to whether one possesses any skill at all, it can be quite humbling and terrifying. I just have to keep writing, writing, writing, and watch myself improve. I remember that only three years ago I had never finished a story, and I had begun few. Now I am trying to create a book. The time in between marks mountains.

I can see my book. Its cover is dark brown leather, patterned with lightning bolts and small winged creatures. In the center of the front plate stands one small faerie, dressed in a short brown garment that ends at the knees and leaves her arms bare. Her long silver hair is braided around her head. Her face is young, but her eyes are old, and she doesn't smile. She holds an open book that spills over the edges of her arms, and she reads it standing up. A spear leans against a tree nearby. She is alone.

Only problem is, I'm not sure what the book is or why Susan is reading it. I still have some difficult theological issues to settle before I'll be happy. I've settled enough to write for the next several days, and that's all I know.  ¶ 1:57 PM