Went to the Word-Thirst writing group at KSP this morning. Was given a writing exercise by this week’s moderator (we take turns) which I honestly thought wasn’t going to amount to anything: too general, too aimless, too much room for error. To whit:

Describe someone. Describe a setting. Have the character move from that setting to another, describing two emotions along the journey.

Good writing exercises exist, like good physical exercises, to pinpoint, isolate, and develop one skill (or muscle). This exercise didn’t do that, and I set about it expecting nothing more than to fill the 15 minutes in order to be polite to a fellow attendee.

Of course, it’s led to a damn good story idea, hasn’t it? Typical- even when I’m trying not to, I attract the exceptions that prove the rule.


I’ve found out what the elephants are doing when they paint. Now I just have to find out why…


Two days of heavy research are behind me. Copious note-taking, covering the Botany Bay Colony, prostitute ships, and Napoleon’s years in Corsica. It’s all coming together, in my best Monty Burns voice. I’ve set myself a target of 31st March to have the spine of the book laid out (This happens, then this, then this…), and a rough shape is beginning to coalesce out of the ether. Should be well on the way by the end of next month. May even have a few words squeezed out: the first line is already decided upon…


I hate depression, I really do. It can cripple you, making each and every effort seem beyond trying, whether it be getting out of bed, walking your daily fitness walk, or even staying alive. It’s all too much, too hard, and not only are you a failure because you can’t do it, you’re a fool to think anybody would care. At least, that’s what you’re thinking. Depression is a horrible, terrible affliction. For the last 2 and a bit years I’ve suffered it in varying degrees. I’m very good at coping. I have a strong personality, a solid sense of what is right and wrong about myself, and a hard-won set of coping mechanisms that have seen me through more than one Black Dog Day. Sometimes, though, it hits hard, and heavy, and the journey back seems too long to be bothered with.

Luscious Lyn copped a fiance-eye’s view of it last night and this morning, and she brought me through it with such love, strength, and affection that I was not only recovered by the time we left the writer’s group (To which I didn’t want to go, and which she made me, knowing exactly what an uplifting effect it would have), I was happy and perky and my usual annoying self.

Everyone should find themselves a partner like The Luscious One. More fool those who have one and let them go, or drive them away, not knowing what harm it is they do themselves.

Love you, babe.