So you might remember a few days ago I thought the solution to my writerly troubles was tea, sleep, and a deep breath?
Spoilers: I was wrong.
I don’t understand my brain.
I spent an entire weekend trying to peck out the draft of a short story I had a deadline for and fought my way through maybe 2,000 words. I was exhausted and it was like wading through knee-deep mud. Or cake batter. Whichever you prefer.
I ditched that for the evening and started something new based on half a line that popped into my head. Just to “relax.”
Then I tripped out 1300 words without even trying in an hour and a half.
There’s just something not fair about that. But I have a completed 4,000-odd word first draft tonight that I started on Sunday, so I’m not going to complain too loudly.
And to ice the cake, this was my sixth attempt at writing for this deadline. As in I have the beginnings, ranging from less than a paragraph to a few thousand words of five different failed story attempts in addition to the one I finally drafted. Everything from high fantasy to historical fiction (with magic, mind you) to ghost stories.
Can I say how happy I am I finally found something that works? Urban fantasy to the rescue (again)!
It’s a huge relief. Now I just have to edit and revise and tenth-guess myself until it’s polished smooth as a gemstone. But I have written from the beginning to the end. I can breathe a little. A little.
So now I’m listening to the Hadestown musical soundtrack (how did I not know about this thing? How? And what bizarre lovliness is it?) and starting The Mortal Instruments series. The book is dancing a careful line between awesome and a touch annoying. A very careful line.
Ever had a similar struggle? Don’t believe in writer’s block? Leave me a comment and make my day.
So it’s 11:30 at night, and I’m up writing. I have a deadline this week, and I have started five different projects without getting past the beginning of any of them. I only need one.
Yeah, this is the part where the little voice in the back of my head that keeps me on track in life just starts screaming into a pillow. I feel a little guilty about that.
There’s really no logic to the block, though. I’ve had plenty of ideas. Ideas are not the problem.
No, it’s more the total and completely crippling self-doubt.
I just keep second(or third or fifth)-guessing myself. Maybe this isn’t good. Maybe it isn’t worth writing to the end. I could write to the end of this story, sure. But I bleed over my stories–I put everything into them. I can’t just write it and let it be “okay.” If it doesn’t say something worth saying, why bother?
My laziness has teeth.
Do you know what would be awesome? Having one day where you only have good ideas. No writing ideas that you can’t carry into a good story, that would peter out after 500 words. Or having the confidence in yourself that you can write something worth reading because you’ve done it before, plenty of times, and it’s still in there, in you. Like Felix Felicis for writers.
It’s okay. Nothing that gritting my teeth, a tankard of matcha tea, and actually catching a full night’s sleep won’t fix.
It’s just a little scary, taking that step off the cliff into dark unknown. Writing is scary, sometimes. I think that’s part of what makes it beautiful. Like seeing the world from the top of a tree. You can see everything below you from up there, small and perfect. But would it be the same if the limbs didn’t sway beneath you in a strong breeze? If you didn’t always have to keep one hand laced through the branches, every muscle just a little tight? Just a little more alive?
What do I know? Maybe it would be.
How am I otherwise?
Finally got my claws on Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill. About time, too. I’ve been hunting it–what, nearly five years now? It was one of those books I couldn’t bring myself to ask for at the circulation desk. I mean, imagine walking up and saying “Yes, hallo, have you got Puck of Pook’s Hill? Yes, Pook. That’s the word.” I don’t think I could have gotten through it without laughing. In a library.
Listening to The Count of Monte Cristo musical soundtrack (again). Realizing the plot similarities between it and Colfer’s Airman–but that’s for another day. I need something to listen to as I write. Been bouncing back and forth between Frankenstein: A New Musical, Monte Cristo, and The Phantom of the Opera for the last few days. The Sierra Boggess version of Phantom. You know. If you were curious.
Also, there is a Percy Jackson musical? That one takes the cake for “I would totally not have expected that” this round.
Anyway. I’m off to go catch a fish. In ink, of course. Wish me luck.
I know I’m not alone. You come up with a thrilling idea, write a short story or even a novel, giddily tell all your friends, enter it to contests, give it to early readers…
…and someone has already written it.
And it’s fabulous! And it’s popular! And everyone loves it! And it’s not yours!
I’m not talking about plagiarism. I’m talking about William Pène du Bois saying someone else had almost the same plot as his lovely The Twenty-One Balloons, when they’d never shared their work with each other. About the increasing number of times that I have a great idea and readers say, “Oh, like xyz fantasy thing. That was great.”
It’s been happening since I started writing. One of the first characters salvaged from my early days of bundling up fantasy clichés that survives in the 1,000+ page draft of my epic is, point for point, Strider from The Lord of the Rings. Same table in the inn, too. And I only discovered this on my first reading of The Fellowship. I didn’t know anything about him before then. He’s never mentioned in the Hobbit (contrary to Peter Jackson’s interpretation).
The next remarkable occasion was more recent–I wrote a fantasy/supernatural/coming of age/ghost story thing with train stations and flowering trees and lots of feels set in Japan–and ta-da! Apparently the name of my main character was remarkably similar to that of the one in Spirited Away, the fabulous Ghibli Studio movie, which, please note, I had yet to see.
I did watch it shortly after that stressful workshop. It was a wonderful film, but rather like watching a candle melt into a pile of goo as I recognized the similarities between my story (which, frankly, is creepier and a lot less whimsical) and the film. How does this keep happening? Off I rush to change my main character’s name–and ultimately trade the happy ending for a heartbreaking one.
The most recent incident? Yesterday. Understand–I don’t read a lot of YA. I like either a fuzzy-sweater, feel-good middle-grade fantasy or I’ll go straight to the adult section for some Tolkien or those-who-wish-they-were-he. So I’d only heard the vaguest rumors about The Mortal Instruments.
Stumbled across the trailer for the 2013 movie yesterday.
Black hoodie? Check. Dark monsters that disappear when you stab ’em? Check. Grumpy supernatural side character keeping the hopeless protagonist alive? Check again.
(cue BookmarkedOne caught between an emergency library trip to read all The Mortal Instruments books and smashing her head repeatedly against her keyboard with a strangled wolf howl)
Seriously! It has the same plot and mood as a story I entered to the WOTF contest a few months ago. And mine won a Silver Honorable Mention! So what’s going on here? I really hadn’t heard about the books–I didn’t know The Mortal Instruments and Mortal Engines were two different things until yesterday. How could I possibly know that someone had already written my invisible monster-world?
On the bright side, I’m not alone. And if the immense fandom for Strider and my silver mention are any indicator, I’ve stumbled upon characters and stories that could be perfectly successful–anything that I’ve accidentally rewritten already has a major fandom.
I know. I’m still a little disappointed the things I came up with aren’t entirely mine. That someone else has a claim on them too, however strange it is that we both arrived at the same place. I like the idea of pulling stories out of the air, never before seen in the world.
But they say that every story has been told at least once. That nothing is completely new, just…rearranged in a different way. After all, Tolkien’s The Children of Hurin is drawn from Finnish and Norse epics–the plot almost exactly the same. And if the Master of All Fantasy did it…should I really be so worried?
Anyway, it’s impossible for me to write something in exactly the same way. I’m far too obstinate and kooky for that.
Thoughts? Feelings? Regrets? Love the books? Written something that’s already been done by someone else? Want to chat? Comment away; I’m always listening.
Land of Stories by Chris Colfer. I have a love/hate relationship with this series.
Literally. We have history.
I’ve been reading it since 2012 when the first one made its way to my library. I can’t think of the series without remembering being up with a flashlight after midnight that Christmas Eve, reading page after page after page. I am a fairytale nerd. If there is a retelling, I know about it. Whatever After? Been there. Liesl Shurtliff? Read it. A Hero’s Guide? Don’t ask, it’s kind of a fabulous train wreck. The original and complete Grimm’s fairytales? Those I had with me at university orientation (Friendly tip: they work like garlic. Nobody talks to the freaky nerd who has a book that could strain a muscle to lift and whose contents involve a lot of murder and blood pudding).
But Land of Stories…it’s different. It’s clever and witty and charming and unique enough that it’s not just repeating everything you’ve seen before. Simple, yes. Not everything they way I would have written it. But it’s quite its own thing.
You can imagine my excitement when I heard it was a series.
Skip ahead a bit, and I’m screaming my head off after finishing A Grimm Warning. After grumbling my way through the battle sequence, I received no end-book resolution. I hate books clearly written so you must buy the next one in the series to get any kind of completion. Yes, the cliffhanger sometimes happens. The Two Towers has a horrifying ending. But the sake of the book should be the story, not marketing. Colfer had a fine ending and ruined it within the last 20 pages. Material that could have been a perfect opening chapter, tacked on at the end. It’s a sticking point with me.
And he made Cinderella some kind of warrior/soldier murder thing. That’s a no.
I was furious enough at the lack of conclusion then I vowed never to read anything of his again, made a very good bookish friend over mutual ranting (she was unhappy about The Hunger Games), and life went on.
Page forward to my post-Lord of the Rings self being utterly disappointed with almost all literature because it isn’t as good and running my fingers along the blue spine of Land of Stories: Beyond the Kingdoms.
I missed them. I still hated them, but I remembered all the good times I’d nearly laughed myself to tears over Mother Goose and Connor–the wedding of Goldilocks, that was golden–the research he’d put into Monte Carlo and Neuschwanstein Castle, the random granny who ran away with a circus in her youth–in a lot of ways, A Grimm Warning is one of Colfer’s best.
Not to say I was happy about it. But whether it made me angry or glad, Land of Stories did make me feel something. And frankly, that’s not something I could say about a lot of other books on the shelves, middle-grade or otherwise.
You guessed it. Beyond the Kingdoms made its way home with me.
I think I must have gone back to read The Enchantress Returns sometime…but I don’t honestly remember much of it. Beyond the Kingdoms didn’t stand out particularly well either. The premise is great, but Colfer works best when he’s building his own characters, not when he’s stealing them from classic stories. We all have our own ideas about what classic stories sound and feel like, and unless you can emulate that original author’s style exactly, someone isn’t going to be happy. Or more likely, a lot of someones.
In other words, don’t mess with my Robin Hood. There will be blood.
But to be perfectly fair…the clearest memories I have of reading Beyond the Kingdoms are in waiting rooms, tense about a loved one in the hospital, trying to make occasional polite conversation with family. One of my least favorite places in the world. That’s not the optimal situation for reading concentration, even if it has burned the experience permanently into my memory.
Which brings us to now. Land of Stories: An Author’s Odyssey. I wasn’t looking for it, but there it was, in the virtual OverDrive library, politely offering to entertain.
After Dune, I needed something to cheer me up. Light and easy. I was already thinking of the world-renowned outlaw Goldilocks, Alex and Connor Bailey, Emmerich Himmelsbach…Beyond the Kingdoms hadn’t ended on much less of a cliffhanger than A Grimm Warning, and I did want to know how it all might end.
To be honest, I’m not sure I went through that much thinking before I borrowed it. Time has a way of helping me forget the things I didn’t like about books. It was more of saw it, click it, now it’s mine.
But there was no possibility I could write a review without explaining some of the history that’s cropped up around this series for me. An explanation with why I’m starting here, with book 5, why I don’t currently have the guts to go back and relive my readings of all the others. Why I’m still reading them, despite my youthful fury years ago.
So, yeah. Backstory dump of a blog post. I take my book relationships very seriously.
So I hadn’t realized my library card had expired. For someone who considers it a more important ID than a driver’s license, this is significant.
As I was renewing it, I discovered that my library has a “responsible party” signature on cards issued to young readers. And since I’ve been a patron hither and thither since I was much too short to peek over the top of the juvenile fiction stacks, that applies to me. I know the signature is to ensure books get returned, fines get paid, librarians don’t need to sharpen their katanas to save their precious treasure from unworthy hands…it still amuses me that after all this time, I still have a card with that on it.
Not like I’m changing that. I’m more than comfortable with my reputation as the irresponsible Hobbit party.
Why did I find out about this now?
I didn’t know I could get online library books. This is seriously embarrassing!
Not that it’s unexpected, though. I’d always take a hard copy of a book over any other format if I can get it. Ninety-eight times out of a hundred. There’s something thrilling, almost sacred about going to the library, smelling the books and musty carpet, finding my way to the very back of the stacks where it’s almost too dark to read the titles on the spines–why would I want to skip all that?
But in light that I haven’t been able to visit my library in a ridiculously heart-wrenching long time because plague…
The discovery is revolutionizing.
More books. I’m ridiculously excited. It feels like I can breathe again. No, it’s more like I’ve been a little bird pecking at cage bars and now the wind’s under my wings like a great, welcoming heartbeat.
Forgive the poetics. I was getting really homesick.
And this probably would be the shortest library trip in the history of my life if I were actually going in the flesh…checking out only one book.
Weird. But I wanted to make sure I understood how the eBook system worked before I went completely nuts grabbing all the books.
I’ll be back.
Just sent off another entry to Writers of the Future. Urban fantasy. Lots of wizards. Too much gorgeous detail describing ordinary things. Fight scenes are probably a mess. Narrator who could be bleeding out from a stab wound and only respond with “This is inconvenient”–which, by the way, makes it so much harder to scare your reader because they’re lulled into thinking everything is fine. Characters I know better than I know myself. I hate it. I love it. It’s submitted now so I get to wait on average 3 months to find out if some of the best SF/F writers in the country loved or hated it too.
It was a hard story to write. I like wizards that are still grounded in the real world, with physical (and mental and emotional) struggles magic can’t always fix.
Combine that with the fact that I all but inhabit my characters to write them, try to feel everything they feel to make it genuine…it’s been a rough last few weeks.
Getting away from that, I’ve returned to my favorite fluff fantasy series. One I’ve been working on intermittently since the summer I was fifteen. Started as an afternoon of fun, grew into a trilogy of novellas, and now I might have five underfed books coming out of it.
Also need to learn a pile of vocabulary about medieval seafaring. Because only Vizzini of The Princess Bride gets away with yelling “Move the thing! The other thing!”
I’m quite terrible at astronomy. Always have been. Even before I became a nearsighted creature from too many books and the sky went blurry-blurry.
But I do love a sky full of stars. It doesn’t matter what their names are or what pattern they make in their dance, I just find the night beautiful. Maybe someday I’ll learn them all. For now I’m happy to wax poetic over that fairylike silver light in my writing.
Yesterday was a slight exception to the rule. I went out looking for the “Great Conjunction” of Jupiter and Saturn on the Winter Solstice, longest night of the year.
I guess it’s hard to miss something that bright. Didn’t stop me from being rather pleased with myself, enjoying the sight perched in a tree.
Yes, I climbed a tree in the dark. Had a better view that way.
In between that adventure and (as always) writing like mad, I have cheerfully been paging my way through Dune.
I won’t lie–there are times I’m slightly muddled by the technical jargon. And I’m not a big fan of “the prophesy.” But sandworms seem remarkably like wingless desert dragons, the Bene Gesserit mentalism/magic/concentration is absolutely fascinating, and almost every character to step into view is compelling.
In other words, yes. Yes, please.
Writing? At the moment I am at the “I-hate-every-word-of-this” stage of my latest Writers of the Future entry. In translation? It’s almost done. I’m planning to shred the whole thing apart and piece it back together again, shove both versions at my alpha readers, and see what happens. In the next nine days.
Do I hear you wish me luck? Yes, I could use some. No more than usual, of course. This is becoming quite normal for my writing process.
I know, I know. It’s my own fault for trying to use what should be a chunk of a novel as a short story. I’m bogging myself down with so many gorgeous details that novel readers would relish…and short story readers would be utterly baffled by. And high urban fantasy is complicated enough.
But when characters are more persuasive than the author…sometimes it’s just more enjoyable to go along for the ride. See where we wind up.
And, naturally, wax poetic about the stars along the way.
How are things in my post-NaNoWriMo little world, you ask?
Odd. Distinctly odd.
Currently in the midst of arguing with one of my characters to the point we’re not speaking much. And even though it’s awkward, this is an improvement. I am not crying every afternoon I try to write over the possibility of his demise.
Can’t help wondering–do all authors feel like this when they kill their favorite characters? This isn’t exactly my first time around doing this, but I haven’t ever had it hit so hard. A moment of deepest gratitude for my writing buddy who was perfectly willing to grieve along with me even though the character in question is part of a book she hasn’t read.
Get yourself a writing buddy like that. No, you can’t have mine.
Aside from not working on that story…
I’ve started my first NaNoWriMo goal outside of November. Just to see how much I usually do write during the year. I tend to belittle my own achievements (easy to do when your working draft is over 600,000 words), so it’s been rather nice to have all the little bars and charts reminding me rather than my efforts being swallowed up by this hungry monster of a “novel.”
Yeah. About that. Fun fact: it’s now longer than Les Misérables.
Speaking of NaNo, I finally claimed one of my prizes from the Ninja Writers Club. Aside from my sheer delight that I can say there is a group of ninja writers, I might be enjoying their advice. Time will tell.
My obsession with Writers of the Future, you ask? Quarter entries due at the end of the month. I have nothing ready yet. But, you know, with two weeks to write a universe-altering science-fiction or fantasy short story in 17,000 words or less…I could cook something up. Maybe.
I did finally complete the Writers of the Future writing workshop! About time, I know. Got my lovely certificate of completion and a bucket full of techniques and ideas. Highly recommended.
I suppose you could say things are more or less normal. Going for a hike with shape-shifting dragons. Admiring Christmas lights with the ghosts. Still drinking too much tea. Enjoying the first few snows.
So happy Eve of NaNoWriMo, Reformation Day, Blue Moon, Halloween, and Time-Change.
As I write this, there are two hours remaining to the start of NaNoWriMo. And I am guilty at this particular moment of having every intention to stay awake to meet it. Ready for the madness.
On the other hand, with stuffing preparations in this week, the madness might never have left.
An example from my odd, method-acting/interrogation style of writing in which I carry on conversations with my characters?
Segment from an actual note I took yesterday while doing some background research on lapis lazuli:
JADE. SERIOUSLY DUDE. WHAT. DID YOU KNOW THIS???
Not that I’m in the habit of yelling at my characters in all caps. Or saying “dude.” But the former has happened twice this week…
Aside from that project (which is supposed to be minding its manners and waiting its turn while I do my NaNo novel),
I finally decided to do the Hogwarts Sorting House Quiz.
Okay, so I’ve been putting this off more or less since I finished the books at the end of summer. Mostly because now that I actually had some idea of what all this fandom was about…I actually had a pretty clear idea of what house I wanted to be.
Or maybe it’s better to say that I had a clear idea of what I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to be in Ravenclaw.
Not because I have anything at all against it. Just because I feel like it would be too easy for me to fit in there. I’m quiet, I’m smart, I’m bookish–clearly. You’re reading my book blog. I’m aware.
But on the other hand, it’s not what I care about most. And when people associate me with the “smart kid,” I can’t help feeling they’re seeing only one very small side of me.
The one house I was certain I wouldn’t fit into? Hufflepuff. Seriously, I was prepared to contest results if I got that one. Hufflepuff is a wonderful house, but I’m just too much of a raincloud for that (with all due respect to unhappy, grumpy, or emo Puffs. You still bring color into what would otherwise be a black-and-white world).
That left Gryffindor and Slytherin. And I have a friend who has been insisting I’m Slytherin since I started reading the books. I wouldn’t have minded either, really. Slytherin has the cooler scarves (sorry. I like green), and people really should be nicer to them. M’dear James Riley, wonderful lunatic author of Story Thieves is Slytherin. Gryffindor is Harry’s house. Few things are better than being brave. There’s a lot to like about both of them.
Add to all this that people take their houses very seriously. I’ve met people who let their houses define their identities–which wouldn’t bother me so much if I couldn’t see it fit perfectly. Very intelligent Ravenclaw professor who loves teaching. Hufflepuff language teacher who could not possibly be nicer to everyone and is literally like a personified hug even on her bad days. A couple of Slytherin students who provided me with culture shock. So I was starting to wonder if there really was something about it that was accurate.
Cue the overthinking and procrastination.
And setting aside the fact that I normally resist personality quizzes on the grounds that they can’t possibly work, my own tendency to assume I must have accidentally cheated them, that not even the Sorting Hat is infallible, and my mixed feelings about pitting people against each other in houses in the first place–
I decided today was the day, in honor of Lily and James Potter. Just as something fun. Nothing more.
Surprise! Aside from the slightest disappointment I don’t need to knit a green scarf, I am perhaps inordinately pleased with myself. I second-guessed it a bit. As I do everything. But I’m quite content with the idea. Adventure, in the end, really is the best prize of all, so I think it’s a good house for me. Besides, when it comes to things like this, it’s the people that define the group, not the other way around. So I’ll enjoy baffling the world as a bookish Gryffindor armed to the teeth to defend every other house that exists.
Comments? Undying love for your house to declare?
Now I’m just left wondering what house Tolkien would have been in (Ravenclaw? He developed multiple languages. Gryffindor? He chased a neighbor while wearing a full suit of armor.) and if I can accurately take sorting quizzes as my fictional characters. Because these are normal things that keep writers awake at night.
Anyway, fond wishes to all the houses today and extra inspiration to the Wrimos bouncing on their toes like it’s Christmas morning. This post is already much too long!
Oh, in case you’re wondering, that friend of mine is still insisting that I somehow cheated the test and really am a Slytherin.
Confetti and cake time! Writers of the Future has awarded me a Silver Honorable Mention!
You might remember “Rejection Slip,” a post about my last Writers of the Future entry. A flat-out refusal of a story that I loved.
Things are looking up.
The Silver Honorable Mention isn’t an official award. I won’t be published in the anthology. But out of 181 countries, story upon story upon story, writers who know what they’re doing and have seen every plot in the business (twice), read mine and saw something they liked.
I can be satisfied with that.
Until I write them something they can’t refuse.
I still scream incoherently every time I open one of the WOTF emails with good news. I reserve that, as my singular right. You know, on the list of things we “crazy writers” do.
So now that it’s officially been announced on the WOTF website, I’ve had my victory ice cream and life is ready to move on…
I’m debating National Novel Writing Month. For the third year running.
The case is this: I want to do it. Per usual, I don’t have time to do it. I’ve learned not to be bothered by that.
I have no plan. None. And only 9 days to come up with one. Because, you know, I’ve squandered the rest of October with unavoidable responsibilities and arguing with characters about peanut butter.
Yeah. You read that right. Peanut butter. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
So can I do this?
Wish me luck. Because I know myself well enough by now to guess that if I can find the slightest spark of inspiration, I’ll give it my best shot.
Bring out the creamcakes everyone! 101 posts on BookmarkedOne!
I realize celebrating no. 100 would have been more appropriate. Shame about that. I didn’t realize until after I’d posted it. And no. 100 turned out to be “Here’s to the Silent Void“…a great deal angstier (is that a word?) and sadder a post than I usually make.
Sorry about that. Writing has its slumps. And while I’d rather just make you smile, I’d rather be honest more. I firmly believe everyone should have a place (occasionally) to scream.
Today being 101, I’m going to cherish the occasion by telling you about my characters–and all the trouble I’m in this week.
I do realize, of course, that I write…unconventionally. It’s not exactly method acting, but there’s a lot of emotion that goes on. If I’m writing something from first person, I step inside that character as if I’m the one living the story. I feel what they feel.
As for other characters? Well, I pop them in the hood of my jacket and carry them around with me as I go about my day like a few plush dolls.
No, but seriously.
What’s the best way to get to know someone? Conversation. Dinner dates. Slumber parties. Sitting together at lunch.
That’s how I get to know the people I’m writing about. I walk down the street, half muddled in whatever story I’m writing and think, “Oh, xyz character would sit there, on that bench, because it’s shady and he likes to feel the chill.” And since I write fantasy, it can be a lot of fun. Watching them be baffled, you know.
I take personality quizzes as my characters sometimes. And laugh at how wrong the results often are. Because I know.
I know exactly what they’d eat for dessert. Their favorite pop culture icons. What they’d say to a snide comment. Preferred styles of music. I know J’s the best to watch scary movies with. V has the best taste in clothes. G is the type (after coffee) who will always drop everything to give you a crushing hug.
I know it all. Because I asked, and they told me. Nice as you please. Bagels in the bargain.
Problem? None of this helps with plot.
And I mean at all. I sit down to write, and it goes something like this.
Me: “So what are we doing today? Dragon-hunting? How are your lives?”
Characters: *awkward silence*
Asking them what they’d do if they were here isn’t helpful. Because really, climbing 23 feet up a sycamore tree or setting someone’s kitchen on fire trying to make toffee is not plot. Not if you ask me.
Which leads us to now…
Jokingly, I said to a friend, “I feel like I need to just sit down my characters and have them do roleplay games. D&D. That kind of thing. Maybe then we’ll have some idea of plot.”
A word of warning, ye writers young, don’t do this. Not only does the friend want to read a story of it now…
J, one of the characters currently residing in the back of my head, appears to have overheard. Is now so excited about the idea as to be compared to a Golden Retriever puppy. Wants to know who else is coming. If we’re going dice shopping. Or minifigs. Appears not to care in the slightest that this was designed as an exercise and we still have no plot.
Well, maybe someday I’ll figure it out, right? At least I’ve got good company.