I have slightly more hair than Colin Mochrie here (with apologies for the fact that you can’t really tell because of the awful video quality), but barely any in comparison to my previous flowing locks; there’s 23 inches of my hair neatly folded in a Ziploc bag and sitting on my kitchen table, waiting for me to decide which hair charity I’m mailing it to. Cutting my hair was the reward for writing every day for three months (sans Sundays), and boy did that visit to the hairdresser feel good. I keep dramatically tossing my hair every time I turn my head because it bounces delightfully.

As to practical consequences, I’ll need to update my About Page picture and redistribute it in the necessary places. I meant to do that today but did not, as I was too busy watching movies. You know how it is. Also, I’m not going to give up writing every day now that I’ve established the habit. I will, however, be updating the goal: I’m dropping Fridays and replacing “just write something” each day with “just write one scene.” If that’s too much, I’ll switch it to a word or page count. For all that it was good to write every day no matter how much or how little, I leaned heavy on the side of “little” and don’t have nearly as much to show for it as I was hoping.

Anyways, I’m sure this is all enormously interesting to you. But there you have it anyways. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

An Old Piece While I Work on Some New Pieces

“Time out!”

The gunfire, blazing fast and hard only moments before, actually tapered off. A machine gun in the distance kept firing, but there was an actual three second pause before someone from the Pellosian side of the line shouted, “You’re…what? You can’t do that!”

“Yeah, well, I just did!” Cole shouted back.

“You can’t call ‘Time out!’ in war!”

Cole, barely paying attention as he helped Jessop shift Barnaby onto his back, yelled, “Take it up with the International Counsel of Dibs and No-Take-Backs!”

“Where is all this blood coming from?” Jessop said to no one, looking briefly at the hand he had pulled back from under Barnaby’s shoulder.

“Let the medics figure it out,” Cole told him. He looked up at Hartman. “Those idiots look like they’re about to rush the line?”

“You won’t believe this,” Hartman said, peering over a concrete pylon, “but I think they’re arguing about whether the International Counsel of Dibs is a real thing.”

Writing Report: been focusing on a novel (hooray) over the past couple days. I pulled this partial scene out of my files because I had nothing of particular note to fill a blog post. Except that I tore it up at soccer last night and I’ve been in a good mood since. Still, that’s not particularly amusing, though I did kick a guy on the bottom of his foot, forcing his entire leg up mid-stride and sending him rolling in agony.

(Admittedly, not all that amusing at the time either; I felt awful, as I’d been aiming for the ball at his feet. The fact that I’m a girl almost certainly saved me from a well-deserved verbal rake-down. He was able to laugh about it ten minutes later and ask that I keep the physical abuse to a minimum as he had a day job in construction.)

General Neglect…

…and Major Indifference. They have similar training styles, but the officers tend to butt heads even while they’re agreeing.

In fact I have continued to work on my projects, despite all appearances, and have even managed to refocus back on my novels. The problem at this point is that I need to pick one. I’ve got two fantastic ideas, but arguing about which one is the more solid of the two is a great way to put off actually starting either of them. Have I mentioned that I hate starting projects? I hate starting projects.

In the meantime I’m polishing off another logo job, even though I groan and grumble like the world is doing me some sort of massive disservice every time someone pays me to give art another shot. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you enjoy doing it. I do, in more promising news, have a poem that’s just waiting to be posted–but I’ll save that for another week. I meant to have it out yesterday, but spent most of the day in a meeting and then on the road, and I’ve just mentally hit that wall.

Also, I finished reading The Lord of the Rings for the (4th?) time, and was delighted to realize that this line in the movie is absolutely faithful to the source material:

(But oh man, old school YouTube. I’m on a kick now. Just be glad I didn’t link to Saruman trololling his way out of Orthanc.)

A Lost Half a Minute of My Life

Two more items of incredible interest today:

  1. I drop-kicked Microsoft Word from my laptop. I was using a copy from my work (with their blessing), but the other day it locked me out of my own documents, claiming that the product was unlicensed. In fact, I suspect that Office365 didn’t like the fact that I hadn’t signed in via the internet for two months, and since I’m on a I-hate-Microsoft-kick and I really can’t stand their new grammar editing suggestions that go along with spellcheck (since when does my word processor think it can think for me? I’m writing dialogue, you piece of crap, of course it’s off grammatically). So I’m trying out WordPad. And yes, I know, still Microsoft–but subscription-free Microsoft. Beggars often try to be choosers despite the helpful idiom, but I’ll do my best to take what I get without complaint anyways.
    1. (You will probably hear me complaining about this later.)
  2. Watched an old lady kick a bunch of ice cubes under a soda fountain the other day. She wasn’t very fast, unfortunately (that’s where I lost that half minute), but I realized as I stood silently out of her peripheral vision, that she had no idea I’d crept up behind her and was waiting for my turn to fill up on pop. There was no way for me to assist without startling her into dropping the entire cup of ice and just compounding the issue.
  3. Oh, but I guess three items: writing report finds half a page added to “The King and the Lionheart” yesterday, and a bunch of little things spread out over three different stories this evening. I need to start focusing.

It Was, Admittedly, Counterproductive

Working on “Alex Byrnes Is a Double-Crossing Weasel” and generally ignoring my blog–and my actual novels. In totally unrelated news, here are two items of interest to no one:

  1. I forgot that St. Patty’s Day was this Sunday, but accidentally (and fortunately) wore my spring-green raincoat because of the weather. Most of the parents in church had some sort of green token on as a shield against their children, and that sparked an old memory: when I was in elementary school, I would wear only a tiny piece of green and make sure it was hidden, hoping beyond hope that I would fool one of my classmates into pinching me for not wearing any green; at which point I would dramatically reveal the spot of color and then get to pinch them back. Yeah, I didn’t really think that one through.
  2. Early Sunday afternoon I made muffins, and by 8 p.m. I had eaten the tops off of a quarter of the pan after realizing, to my sudden, dawning delight, that there was no one to stop me.

My Sister and I Screamed like This Once and Forever Traumatized Our Cat the Day She Brought Home a Gift, Threw It in the Air to Impress Us, and It Squeaked

This will delight me forever.

Writing Report:

“Kuznetsov was a tool.”

“Kuznetsov was a what now?”

Whistler pushed himself out from under the bank of computers. “Tool. Word for ‘enormous douchebag,’ yes?”

Coleman glanced briefly around the room with his eyebrows furrowed, like a guilty party would step forward if he looked severe enough. “Who is teaching you these words?”

Tally coughed and buried himself farther into his work.

What the Three-Year-Old Knew

Holy bananas, I found it. Behold, the source material:

Susan Wellins sighed loudly in the doorway to the living room, mostly to indicate to her husband that there was a problem and he should ask about it. She gave him a second, and then decided waiting for the perfunctory “eh?” wasn’t really worth her time.

“The closet again.”

The back of Jonathan’s head over the couch didn’t relay what he was thinking, nor did the green-socked feet resting on her coffee table. Book pages rustled. “The closet again?” he repeated absently.

Susan moved past the couch and to the squashy chair across from it, depositing her shoes with two satisfying clunks next to the magazine holder. Jonathan kept reading, turning a page with one finger. He continued to read and she watched him until he got the point. The book disappeared, brightly illustrated cover going under his thigh. Why he did that she wasn’t sure; maybe to keep himself from picking it up again, before the conversation was over. She gave him a tired sort of smile to let him know she appreciated it.

“The closet again,” he repeated.

It was opening enough. “I don’t understand that kid,” she said. She pressed back into the chair, paused to push her short hair her neck, and then leaned back again, aware that the blonde hair pushed up around her head probably looked stupid. “Who’s afraid of their closet?”

“Petey is, apparently,” Jonathan answered her. “What did he want you to do?”

She answered with exasperation in her voice. “He wanted me to lock the door. So it couldn’t look at him. We don’t even have key for that closet. He takes after you,” she added suddenly.

Both of their children seemed to take after their father, with darker hair than her own, and even at age seven and three she could tell they’d end up looking like their Dad. Susan did, however, claim Juliella’s curiosity and her maddening need to take everything apart. She generously gave full credit to Jonathan for Petey’s inability to turn off his imagination.

Jonathan tilted his head just slightly, as though to take her in. “Weren’t you afraid when you were little?”

She eyed his nearly black hair with disappointment, before answering. He’d snuck off again to the barber and it was much shorter than she liked. That always happened when he went to Super Cuts unsupervised.

“Monsters,” she admitted, meeting his eyes again. They were crinkled at her, probably suspecting what she’d been thinking. “Monsters in my closet.”

In fact, this wasn’t precisely true. She hadn’t really ever been afraid of monsters. Dark places were scary, so closets and basements did fall under that jurisdiction, but she’d always been more afraid that a burglar, or a kidnapper, or maybe a murderer would pop out of the dark. It was close enough to monsters, though, only she had never really had the delight of growing out of her monsters, like you could the boogey man.

“There you go,” her husband said, sweeping a hand at her. It was a tactical move, she knew, meant to distract her from the hand creeping back to the book under his leg.

Susan snapped her gaze forward without working herself up into a rigid sitting position. The day had been too long for that. “In my closet, Jonathan. Not my actual closet.”

She took another long moment, tired, and then continued. “He says it’s using your face.”

“What? My what now?”

“The Halloween one.” Susan waited for recognition, but it didn’t come. He stared at her, and she realized how that had probably sounded. “The mask I mean, the one you wore two Halloweens ago.”

“It couldn’t,” he said, expression mystified. “I’d never have given it to Petey. He hated that thing.”

Susan widened her eyes at her husband, biting her lip in exaggerated horror. “Maybe the closet took it.”

“I’ll write that down,” he assured her. It was one of their jokes, that Jonathan would write down whatever profound thing had come out of her mouth. For posterity’s sake, he sometimes added. Writer-husbands thought themselves so clever.

Susan wasn’t looking at him now, considering the options as she gazed at the family photos above the couch. “We should get him his own room,” she said. “Juliella’s old enough to be out of the crib anyways. That’s probably what this is about.”

“Or maybe,” Jonathan suggested, “he’s afraid of the closet.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

Jonathan shook his head as though she didn’t get it. “Houses are creepy places.” She was very proud of her house and immediately shot him a look, but he had already put up his hands. “Even parts of good houses.”

She wasn’t buying it.

“Come on,” he said, leaning forward in the couch. Susan wondered what that was doing to the book cover under his thigh. “You don’t get a bad a feeling sometimes, when you enter a house, or a room? Never?”

“Never,” she assured him. “Houses are houses. Any bad feelings are from the people living in them, and that’s usually because of the way they decorate and treat their place.”

Jonathan was grinning, expression wry. “How unromantically scientific. Too scientific sometimes, Sue.”

She didn’t agree or disagree. “Hm.”

“Maybe houses do have personalities.” She must have been giving him a look of incredulity, because he neatly turned it into a joke. “I’ve always felt the garage door hated me.”

“But the closet?” she demanded. “You’re the English major. Analyze it.” When in doubt, fall back on a good standby: lovingly mock your husband’s degree.

“I write children’s fantasy,” he said. “I’d rather tell a story than try and find the meaning of life in it.”

“So Petey’s need to see the closet as an enemy is…”

He sighed. “I’ll humor you.” She grinned. It was fun getting him to play. “To escape his suburban confines and have an adventure. He’ll realize, by the end, that there are no real happy endings and return, unsatisfied and disillusioned, to the comfort of his conservative upbringing.”

Settling even further into the chair, Susan searched the space between the cushions and the side, finally pulling out an old issue of MEMagazine. She glanced up at Jonathan, the book back in his hands.

“He gets it from you,” she told him.

Jonathan cocked an eyebrow at her and flipped a page.


Petey lay in the dark, staring at the strange shadows the nightlight cast on the ceiling. Sometimes he saw faces, dogs, cats, even a pair of wings once, but tonight all he saw were the shadows trying to swallow up his glow-in-the-dark stars.

He needed to figure out what he’d done to piss off his closet. If he could, he wouldn’t have to lay awake at night, afraid to close his eyes and afraid to open them, because the door was always gapped just a little bit wider. The closet hated him. Had hated him since they’d moved into the house about three years ago, and first started trying to kill him.

He’d suspected it was monsters for awhile. Monsters made sense. Monsters were traditional. It was only because things happened in the daytime too that he realized it might be the closet. Monsters had run of the night, but the house was supposed to be his once morning broke.

Why, why, why did it have something against him? It had no reason to hate him. But it did. He lost everything in the closet, never could find a thing when he needed it, and Mom said it was because he was messy. She didn’t believe him when he told her that Dad’s mask, the one he’d worn one Halloween with the ugly mouth and big, hairy nostrils, was always on top of the pile of closet debris whenever he opened the door.

Petey suddenly felt the closet door begin to creak open. It was sound too, but the snick was so quiet it had to be half-imagined. Sometimes he looked over at the closet and nothing really had happened. He’d asked his mom to lock it, but she’d said he needed to stop being ridiculous.

Over in her crib, Juliella stirred.

Juliella was barely three, had blonder but wispier hair than him, and shared his freckles and his sleeping space. He should’ve minded (all his friends with little sisters did), but he liked having her where he could keep an eye on her. Big brother was a worthy job. He’d taught her to walk, and he’d teach her the Scooby Doo theme when she was ready to learn it.

That’s what scared him about the closet most. He looked over at it, saw the strip of black between the door and the wall that grew wider every time he looked away and back again, and hated the innocent cheerfulness of the white door. Juliella was fooled by that color.

“You won’t get her,” Petey hissed into the dark. “I won’t let you.”

Because it kept trying to suck her in.


The closet hadn’t always hated children. Just people in general. But children had proved the easiest to frighten, because they couldn’t explain it away like the adults (“Oh my, I thought that shelf was a little loose.” “Dear me, I swear I put those shoes right here.”). The closet had started out bitter, for no better reason than it felt cheated by the rest of the house, with their furniture and their people and their long memories. Perhaps at one time it would have admitted to being lonely, but now the closet enjoyed its sullenness, harboring animosity for the children that had started to think they could use its space.

The pile on the closet floor shifted as the weight of night settled down. Comics slid under used socks and smelly sneakers, and somehow the mask ended up back on top. That wretch, Petey, got a start every time he opened the closet and found it sneering at him. It was the closest the closet ever got to wearing a face.

The closet liked the smell of fear. It was a heavy feeling that roiled around the toys and into the clothes, so that whenever the boy put on his shirt he was bathed in the stench of it, stupid and unaware. The strip of door cracked a little wider on creaking hinges, and stopped when Petey’s head snapped up and around to look.

The little boy slipped out of bed, hesitating because everyone knew the place under the bed wasn’t a very nice spot either. Most under-bed spaces were merely misunderstood, and this one was the same, allowing the child’s bare feet to touch the floor without incident. Chump. The closet watched Petey bend down to unlock the wheels on the crib. This had been a common ritual for the past couple weeks, Petey slipping out of bed to roll his sister’s crib against the back wall, straining with the effort to do it silently. He stopped when his own bed was between her and the closet, crawling under the covers to pretend to sleep.

The closet peered in a little wider, and lazily froze again when Petey looked back.

As much hostility as he had for the children and the rest of the cheerful house, the closet knew it couldn’t break the rules. It wanted to, badly, but the rest of the house would let the closet alone so long as no one ever caught his movements. The living room, a benevolent room but largely territorial when it came to the family, was up in arms over the closet’s behavior. But the closet knew it wouldn’t make a move without the kitchen, which was too concerned with making sure the family ate well to bother paying attention to the rest of the house.

The teddy that had been lost last week rolled to the front of the heap, and the closet creaked with the pleasant sense of the wait before morning came. Once they let the little girl out of her cage, he’d crack the door, and let teddy peek out into the bedroom.

The closet couldn’t smile. But the Halloween mask leered into the dark, grinning from the top of the pile.


“We are going to be late.”

This was not as foreboding a situation as it sounded, as every week morning at 7:45 his wife uttered the same words. There was an explosion of activity from the front hall, and Petey came out dragging a backpack and trying to hop into his shoes.

“Hup hup hup,” Susan ordered, whirling through the kitchen to grab a pop tart. She handed them to Petey.

“These are cold.”

“Then start getting up earlier,” she told him, which hardly seemed fair, Jonathan thought, since his wife pressed the snooze easily twice as many times as Petey did. “We are late.”

Petey managed to finish the hop into his shoes, smashing down the back heel of his sneakers. He was fighting the foil of the pop tart packaging and Susan was whirling her hands in wide circles to get him through the front door when he stopped.

“Dad, you have to—” Petey saw his mother looking at them, and leaned in to Jonathan’s ear. “Keep her away from the closet.”

Jonathan smiled, ruffling his head. “Come on. Things aren’t so bad when it’s light out.”

Susan was tugging at their son’s arm now, pulling him towards the door as she shoved Petey’s coat at him. Petey looked troubled, face drawn in serious contemplation. Jonathan was pretty sure he’d answered wrong.

“The closet won’t get her,” he said loudly. “I promise.”

Petey didn’t look happy, but then there was little else the kid could agree to. He nodded hesitantly, looked at Juliella hard and long, and finished pulling on his coat.

“We are so late!” Susan exclaimed. She kissed him like it was a drive-by shooting, fast and hard on the mouth, and the front door was slamming before he could feel the ache of his front teeth.

“All right, Juli,” Jonathan said in his best punk-rocker voice, looking down at his daughter. She covered her smile with her hands. “The day is ours.”

Pete and Susan were always flurries of energy and motion in the morning, rushing for bags and food and shoes, depending on their desperate need in the fifteen minutes they had before Petey had to get to school and Susan had to get to work. When Jonathan was finally left with the baby of the family, the day appeared calm and his for the taking. He sat at the kitchen table, writing while Juliella worked on something at his feet.

“I hung’y” Juliella announced.

Juliella stated this several times through every morning. Jonathan doubted she was hungry; it was more likely that lunchtime was her way of keeping track of the time.

“You’re only a couple hours too early.” She huffed and went back to her own work.

He scratched at his notebook and tried to leave it alone.

It was Petey’s insistence that bothered him. The closet, the closet is evil! It sounded so stupid in the morning, but Jonathan remembered how it had felt to be a kid, certain that the basement was going to kill you. He shook his head, as though to get rid of the thoughts. Time slipped by easily when you were trying to get out of writing a scene you didn’t care for.

He was working his way through a particularly insipid bit of phrasing when the silence of the house struck him. Juliella normally stayed near his feet, but even when she was in the living room she made some sort of noise, whacking at toys until they did what she wanted or taking them apart to see if they’d tick. But there were no sounds of a busy three-year-old, just the thrum of the dishwasher.

He stood. He couldn’t get it out of his head.

The living room was empty. Jonathan turned in the quiet space, hoping she was hiding behind the sofa. “Juliella?” he called uncertainly.

Half felt, half-imagined, he heard the sound of a closet door clicking.

Jonathan had always believed in the power of instinct, of gut-wrenching fear, and the fact that monsters were real. He loped up to the bedrooms, seeing as he passed that the stairway guard had been quietly taken apart by an inquisitive three-year-old, taking the stairs three at a time. He’d learned how to be an adult, but the other part of him, the part that had not grown up and wrote stories about adventures and danger and the usefulness of magic, knew these things could still happen. He slammed into Petey and Juliella’s bedroom.

Foolishness struck him. The room was empty. There wasn’t any sound, and that suddenly frightened him most of all.

Juliella,” he tried again.

The audacity of the closet struck him, glaring white and innocent in the morning light coming through the window. It glanced off the plastic stars on the ceiling, showing off the dust that floated above the book shelf next to the wall. The crib, for some strange reason, had been shoved into the corner between the bed and the wall.

Jonathan opened the closet, dread in his stomach.

Juliella sat in the dust motes, calmly taking pieces off of a Mr. Spell. There was a crowd of shirts that needed picking up off the floor around her, and a stuffed bear under her right knee. The Halloween mask smirked at him from the floor.

She looked up at him. “Lunchtime?”

“No,” he said, staring blankly down at her. Her hair was mussed, and the braids her mother had worked into her blonde hair needed re-doing, but that was par for the course. Life was so normal it wasn’t. “Hand that over, Juliella. It’s your brother’s.”

She huffed but obeyed, and he helped her to her feet, straightening her shirt with one hand. He waved the Mr. Spell at her, still staring into the closet. “We’re going to have a talk about this with Petey later,” he said.

“Awww,” she moaned, moving away, and Jonathan leaned forward, snatching the mask from the floor.

“Don’t you ever—” Jonathan started, jerking the mask angrily, but then he remembered that he was yelling at a closet and he turned to follow his daughter instead, back to the kitchen and the dishwasher and his writing, waiting to be finished on the table.

I made a PROMISE

I was going to have an actual thing to share tonight (yes, a thing), but I want to try and illustrate the thing at least in a small way, and tonight is too late. I’m tired. I’d say goodness knows why, except daylight savings time started on Sunday and I’m still reeling like I’ve got major jet-lag instead of an hour less sleep in the morning. Still, it is nice to see the sun’s face a little longer in the evenings, so I’ll leave my complaining at that.

In other news, I’m reading The Lord of the Rings before I go to bed each night, and having an enormous amount of fun comparing it with the movies and trying to recall the original way I imagined everything. Regardless, the movies are fantastic adaptations, though I can’t help but shake my head a little over some of my favorite bits that were lost in the making. Biggest complaint: they dumbed down and eviled up my two favorite characters–Pippin and Faramir, respectively. Pippin, for the record, was young and occasionally foolish by reckless choice, but actually quite intelligent; Faramir was the best and noblest of the two brothers without hesitation when he didn’t have a Hollywood writer insisting that Gollum needed a reason to go bad after a brief respite of okay behavior, as though the evil in the heart of man needs a reason to be. But they simultaneously deserve a hearty round of applause for all the favorite character pieces that did make the cut–like Gimli and Legolas competing over their corpse tallies. However, there is one very clear example of something I think the movie did better: the end of the Fellowship of the Ring. As Aragorn closes Frodo’s proffered hand and quietly says, “I would have followed you to the end.”

(And Sam bawling the hobbit out only a few short minutes later: “I made a promise, Mr. Frodo!”)

The reason it remains such a great adaptation despite the many–and in many a case deep–cuts is because they captured the feel of the novel, if not every excruciating rock that lined the road into Mordor (it took me three read-throughs to start appreciating the scenery; the first two times I actually skimmed the landscape shots because there’s only so much of that I can take). And most of the changes had to be made because of the limitations of the media. Time is a constraint a novel isn’t bound too, and movies are more rigid in their structure due to audience expectation. But that’s a topic for another day. I’m to bed to finish reading The Two Towers.

P.S. Wrote every day I was supposed to, with not enough to show for it. This challenge has been good for my habits, but I think I need to add another layer: an amount goal/expectation. “Two rotten, stinking pages,” was one suggestion I read somewhere recently. Thanks, Mom.

The Wrap-Up

Note, read after you’ve read On the Corner of Pine and Meyer. Otherwise: spoilers.

My latest novella has been an interesting project, and a definite learning experience; also, not my favorite work. The original draft for this story is so old that there were double spaces after each period. I swear I like humor, but most of the ideas I’ve posted and written to this site were cooked up in college when I felt melodramatically drawn to take-all-this-very-seriously. If I wrote this story now I’d probably just straight up start with the house talking and changing things, not only because those are the interesting bits and you may as well lead with your strongest foot, but also because watching a man verbally war his own house while it keeps interrupting his work on the laptop he had the misfortune to plug into the wall could be hilarious if handled right. Eventually I’d work in the creep/menace factor for some added thrills, before cleaning it all up at the end with a smile and a bow.

I’d also probably give him more kids and/or a not-dead wife because I’m tired of repeating the same pattern of single parent, two kids. All three of my longest stories on this site (this one, “Small Town Super Nobody,” and “Ten Seconds to Now”) use it. Which is an affront to my annoyance with modern fiction. There aren’t enough fics in this world—at least not written recently—with happy, whole families. I’ve still got a heavy majority of orphans and lonely protagonists with tragic back stories clogging up my Word drive, but at least now the one-shot folder is neatly bisected by a story that features an annoyed mom telling her three kids to knock it off while the man of the house makes groan-worthy dad-jokes in the other room, and book-ended by another about the luckiest family on earth. Both were additions to the folder in 2018.

But I didn’t come up with Pine&Meyer last year, I wrote the second draft nine years ago as the final project for a creative writing course (adding about 15,000 words to the original draft, which I’ll see if I can track down) in my last semester as an undergrad, and I’ve been working with what I got. Some extra lessons:

  1. The delete button is your friend. Just because it can be a novella doesn’t mean it should be a novella; and
  2. Never start posting a story you haven’t finished writing.

I’ve said the second before, but it bears repeating.

You may even hear it again someday.

(Oh: and I’m back to work on more promising projects. I won’t tell you which one yet, but I started to work on it over my lunch break instead of watch YouTube videos just because I was excited to get to work on it, and that’s got to be a sign of something promising. I’ll see about reporting actual word counts again once I move out of the planning stage.)