Greycicle

Windy, rainy, muddy, naked spring. Umbrellas meet an ugly end on the street outside, and the bicycles in the backyard endure it miserably, like horses in a storm.

I know it's for the good - rain melts away the snow much faster than the sun - but it's still grey and cold. Greycicle.

It is good for writing, though. Last night I wrote a scene where Line and Balthasar talk about which of the Inners they would settle down in, if they could. It's not fair. Why must Balthasar have that horrible chest ripping cough? I wonder if I would do what he did. It was sad, which is good.

Not so good that the scene belongs to the next story and not the one I'm supposed to be writing now. What if that's what happens when I try to sell Book 1? "We'd much rather go ahead with Book 2"?

Like I commented on Laini's blog after her brilliant post on reminding herself what she knows: I just have to get over myself and write the real story.