Tonight’s Agenda

This current fic has hit 10k words and I’m developing a weird relationship with it. I really like the world building. I like the way the plot is meshing. However, I really worry that it’s not something that will find an audience among the Legend of Korra fanbase. Sometimes that’s fine; I’m willing to write some things even if they only find an audience of one1. However, I’m running on the last of my steam for this project in its current form. It’s time to shit or get off the pot.

Inclement weather has me working from home tonight, so it’s time to get these 10k words ready for other people to see them. Worse yet, I need a series title. Titles are one of my personal bugbears.

But I have got to do it. Either I’ll be proved right and I can move on to another idea, or I’ll be proved wrong and get a shot in the arm to continue this.

Speaking of Gnolls

I found a document in my google drive that turned out to be a four thousand word narrative featuring two NPCs from a D&D campaign I ran probably six or seven years ago. As I’m reading it, I’ m thinking “this isn’t a terrible piece of prose, all things considered.”

I had forgotten that it gets dirty about two thirds of the way through. So yea, gnoll sex, that’s a thing I’ve officially written and I think my best course of action at this point is to just own it. I’ve got more embarrassing skeletons in my literary closet.

I had my first motorcycle riding dream last night. This usually happens with any new obsession in my life and I’ve been expecting this one. I was surprised to find it was a dream about riding off road, which I’ve never done.

I remember the waves of the sea stretching away beneath my right hand and coastal scrub rising to blue mountains beneath my left. Helmet pulled down over my face, gloves cinched tight at my wrists, swing the leg over the bike and fire it to life. Ride along the line between grassland and sea, sand flying up behind my throttle, tall grass brushing the clutch. I ride so long that the land begins to changes, dries out. Blue mountains turn red, the plants fade, I’m riding on dense packed earth. But the sea still crashes to my right.

The riding is hard. The ground is unsteady. I fall from the bike several times and it’s heavy, loaded with gear. Hauling it upright takes a lot out of me. The light starts to fade, the sun lowering to turn the waves to fire. The desert turns to bare rock, worn to undulation by the wind.

Finally the riding stops. The kickstand scrapes on sandstone. The gloves are stuffed into the helmet, which hangs from the throttle by the chin bar. The boots unzip, the bedroll is unstrapped and laid out just above the dark line of the wave soaked rock. A pair of feet are lapped by the cool water.

Tired. A good sort of tired, tied to a hard day with miles laid to rest like dead soldiers. A sort of tired that knows it has to get up with the sun and start again.

The saddest a dream has ever made me was a dream where I was climbing through the most beautiful landscape I can imagine. Mountainous rock terraces sheathed in green ice, ever breaking apart and refreezing into new patterns, even as I moved among them. Surges of fresh melt water flowing over the landscape and forming short-lived, ephemeral streams, channels and ponds.

On one horizon, the towering expanse of a mountain range, thousands of meters high, like the backbone of a great, desiccated beast pushing through through a skin of verdant green plant life. On the other horizon, natural pillars of stone rising from a turbulent grey sea; objects carved by the sea, made by it, and yet ultimately doomed to be consumed by it. I walked through this world under azure sky, feeling the earth shift under my feet and looking back to see my footprints become part of the landscape itself, another brush stroke on an ever changing picture. I was taken back inside the dream, found myself unable to continue on but just sit and gawk at that which surrounded me.

I stretched out my hands in an attempt to touch the world around me, to connect more completely with this ethereal beauty my own mind had created, and I felt remorse that nothing I would experience in my real life would be able to compare to what I now knew my imagination was capable of.