Ahoy and avast, writers! Also beware! We live in perilous times. As I write, we are poised on not one but several literary precipi:
Precipice One: I am guest hosting Write On! because SensibleShoes is setting out for her Avignon Papacy, i.e. relocating for the winter to some backwater with primitive if any internet function. She has promised to drop in and even write the occasional diary, but I for one feel forlorn, like a lamb bereft of Little Bo Peep and/or Mary (the one with the little lamb, I mean). Please note that I have just compared Sensho to characters played by Jeremy Irons and to nursery rhyme shepherdesses. You can see how upset I am.
Precipice Two: Some of our number are poised to embark on a great, albeit precipitous, adventure: Writing a Novel Very Very Fast, starting on Saturday. According to my notes, these include 3rd time participant terrypinder, second-time participant Orinoco, jeremybloom, WiseFerret, and possibly Prinny Squad. Cfk will report progress on her Togwogmagog saga, and not a lamb will report word count on an ongoing dissertation. Is anyone else going to dive in/off?
Precipice Three: Hallowe'en tomorrow. Stephen King. The Haunting. My big brother's improvised ghost stories. Sure, he was carried out of The Wizard of Oz screaming with terror at the winged monkeys when he was four, but trust me, he got his own back and then some. The Hand at The Foot of The Bed. Need I say more?
Precipice Four: In fact, this isn't really a precipice. I wish it were a precipice. Instead it's a vast, featureless desert of hot, hot sand. Far away in every direction are misty, welcoming mountains which may however turn out to be mirages. I speak, of course, of that Black Dog of our vocation, Writer's Blo-- No! I don't even believe in it.
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