The words came a bit slowly, but not clumsily. I worried a lot about them being crap, but recognize this as my own headnoise. This is a bit like starting the lawnmower after its long winter's nap. Everything has to cough and ping and rumble and smoke for a bit, burn through the bad gas in fuel lines and carburetor before really kicking to life.
At least that's what I tell myself. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. My hope is to have this done in first draft by the end of this coming weekend, but I'm not going to force the flow of words. As it happens, there will likely be no writing today due to an after-hours social function with my professional colleagues.
Meanwhile, a tiny bit of WIP:
I suppose I’d better begin at the beginning. Which is not when that little bitch Zellandyne was sparked to life in her mother’s laboratory, no, no. The real beginning of most stories starts with the villain and her motivation. And while I know I’m not the villain, almost everyone else who recounts this tale casts me as such, so I’ll claim my privilege and begin with me.
I have twelve brothers and sisters, all older than me. Each was born a year and a month apart under a different new moon, in what must have been a heroic feat of planning on our parents’ part. And when I say born, I am using that word the old fashioned way, dropping covered in blood and snot from betwixt our mother’s legs.
See what I mean about the planning? If you’re going about reproducing the sensible way, with glass dishes and bottled lightning in a nice, safe laboratory, then you can have children any time you want. In any quantity you want. A dozen kids? Install a bigger autoclave, make sure there’s enough fuses in the junction box, and you’re off to the races.