It's also good to be back to writing first draft prose after all the recent emotional and personal upheaval. I've remained fairly productive in terms of the business of writing, but new wordage has been elusive. Cancer is not good for my creative brain. Since I'm not likely to see less stress any time soon, I just need to adjust to living with it.
Having Green await my further attentions is a good way to accomplish that.
Did I mention I'm writing again?
And of course, some WIP…
When and how did he approach?” I asked quietly. Closing the gates was a neat trick, to be sure, and I’d love to know how it was done, but that didn’t explain the fear reek which permeated the air around me.
Even out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dao’s jaw working, as if the words of his reply were precious and not to be let out of his mouth without good cause.
Finally, he spat out my answer. “Walked out of the desert along the Western Road, handy as you please following close behind Mansour’s latest date caravan.”
I knew of Mansour. A level-headed, hard bastard. Precisely the type it took to survive both bandit and bankers for decades. “What did he have to say about it.”
“Claimed he never noticed.”
“Mansour? Really?” The old trader had a reputation for an eye even sharper than his tongue, which was going some.
Then the man in the gateway turned and smiled at me. My guts slid into jelly. Behind me, someone screamed, then abruptly cut herself short.