Wilds: House of Slide

I'm excited to announce a new baby, due soon, no not flesh and blood, but ink and parchment.

This is the pretty I placed in chapter on this site earlier this year, but couldn't keep up the fervor and speed.

I don't know about fervor and speed. I don't  know about writing at all sometimes. My baby fell asleep with his hand clutching my hair. Tangled with children, stuck, sticky, enthralling children, the writing fades into the background. But Lewis won't let me stop until his story is done. He keeps whispering to me, tipping his white top hat to the crowd while sending me a half smile. Fictional characters can do all those things at once. Me, I have a four hour delay from the time I leave out the chicken to when I remember to put it away. I blame Lewis and his whispers, his intent gaze before he glances furtively over his shoulder, ready for them when they come, the mob with their torches, or the pounding of the three-year-old on the bathroom door, whichever comes first.

I have so many interests, I don't think that I am very interesting. Writing a blog feels pretentious and overwhelming, that I have something to say about what I say, that my daily triviality is worth the space of words, even digital words take up space. Don't they? Even my struggles seem small. Except when they're too much and consume. Sometimes there are no words.

I am not verbal. I found this interesting. When I am emotionally overwrought, I have no words, only space and gesture. I need space to find words for the feeling. I cannot explain while I act. I must stop and explain then restart the motion. If only I were a fictional character with accompanying dialogue, wardrober, director.

Sometimes the freedom stifles. Fashion. The running around to find rules to follow because there's too much space, too much free fall without someone to yell when to pull the ripcord. No ripcord. I've decided on my personal style. It's traditional. I'm so bored by my own style statement. I don't have the beautiful extravagance of bright pink/purple/green hair. I'm practical. Efficient. Distracted. I mean, stable. I mean, I'm busy creating, I don't have time to fuss over impractical touch-ups. I see cute girls with pink hair and I think, "how often do they have to touch-up?" What percentage of their time is used in matching those vintage gems?

The movie about Steve Jobs left me less than enthusiastic about him as a person, but he knew how to focus. He created systems to support his work. He had dozens of the same exact thing that he wore every day. Mindless functionality. That's what your home should be, what your closet and refrigerator should be. Or mine, anyway. Sometimes boring is all you have time for, particularly when you're busy chasing too many butterflies.

About the baby. It's a prequel. Everyone is leery about prequels. It's not that kind of prequel. It's the kind of prequel that explains things I don't have room for in the Lewis/Dariana drama.

I'm presenting the prequel as three parts that I'll publish over time, hopefully ending the prequel at the same time I end the original Hotblood saga. Saga, drama, fictional characters are so pretentious. I love them all.