So, I'm writing a book. Of course, as I said to my little brother, 'when am I not writing a book?' I think there's a little person in my brain whose job it is to tell me to write. And I do. All the time, about pretty much everything under the sun, as my blog will attest. I wish I could write for school as fluently as I write for you guys and in my journal. But, back to the book. It's really weird, and extremely odd, and I've probably broken (or will break, should it actually get published) every copyright law in existence by using Tolkein's elvish (quite liberally, I might add) throughout. Throughout the three pages that are actually written at the moment, that is. Supposedly, I'm writing a book with some people (no names, you know who you are), but that doesn't seem to be working out at the moment. I wonder why. Those of you who know what I'm talking about, we need to have a meeting to discuss this. Soon, preferably. I will see you all on Wednesday, so talk to me, Please! Nothing gets done if we don't talk to each other.
Why is it that I never can stay on the same subject for more than a few sentences? I trail off into one thing and then another, until I've covered every topic from applesauce to gallimaufry to unicorns, with various bits of elvish and British accents thrown in here and there. I just love to talk. Almost as much as I love to write. And such is the Author-Ship. I sail on from one thing to another, writing profusely about everything that crosses my path.
-Reality is a lovely place, but I wouldn't want to live there.