For three hours I've been reading Belinda. Before that I was in CoH talking with a very good friend of mine about being published and nanowrimo and how I never seem to be able to finish anything I start.

He thinks I should go for a serial romance. I told him I could do that. Spice, specifically, if you're familiar with Harlequin. I read some of their excerpts... and I think I could do it. He says I have a natural talent. I have a hard time grasping that.

With nanowrimo looming around the corner (trust me, the month will fly by faster than you think) I've been trying to figure out exactly what I want to write about. I have vague ideas, half-baked and waiting for a little extra something. A romance, certainly, but whose? I can't write about my CoH characters, after all if I'm going to get something published it probably shouldn't be something against a game EULA.

Mine? Something from Taren? Something completely made up? I look at the slope and see none-too-firm footing. It'd be easy to step and slip.

Surely it's not as simple as taking one of my characters and utterly sanitizing it of every trace of CoH? A rename, a relocation... wouldn't that work?

I had three drinks tonight, all very close together, as I knew I'd have to tend to Griffon at some point. 101 fever and fussy, maybe teething but who knows. Just gotta keep an eye on him.

I didn't get drunk. I haven't had a drink in over a year and a half and I didn't get drunk off three Mike's. My cheeks got numb, but that was it. It made me want a cigarette, badly. Not just any cig, but a Djarum Black.

D&D group here in 4 hours. Need to clean still, but will likely be passed out. Not sure I even want to play... adventure feels stale because it's from a magazine. I always made mine up on the fly.

Why can't I sleep when I need to? I miss curling up with Night. But even if I stay up, force myself to stay up, I'm still not tired when bedtime rolls around. I hit my second, third, fourth wind. Even though my son is sleeping. I could sleep, should sleep when he does, but I don't.

Instead I listen to my brain forming jumbles of story and paragraphs and sentences crashing into one another until I can't make out which word is where.

- The throne is heavy, huge and black. Onyx and rubies glint in the firelight. The seated woman, if she can be called that, watches calmly, a knowing smile on her face. Her wings are slightly spread, and her naked skin glistens ebony, matching the throne. At her feet kneel two elves, a pair of matched hunting hounds, with pale skin and dark hair. One rests his head on her knee, his arm curled around her calf. A blood-stained battle axe is slung across his back. His hands seem to be dipped in blood, and blood is smeared in a pattern across his chest, and a band across his eyes. The other lightly traces his fingers along the soft skin of the woman's inner thigh, twin blades resting at his hips. Her hounds, her lovers, her assassins. -

As I was writing this my son became ill. He seems much more chipper now, 2 hours later. His hair is like a mohawk standing up from his skull. I call him fuzzy-head. Night calls him punkin-butt. We are totally in love.