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Marble becomes sand, and all that remains is the moonlight
.
Great. So now neither of them will talk to me.
Casey's afraid, in pain, and reluctant to do anything. Zeke is so hurt and enraged that I can't even get a glare out of him, he's so knotted up with anger. I can't say I blame him, not one bit.
And the saddest thing is, I'm beginning to understand why people abandon WIPs. I'm certainly not feeling very enthusiastic about opening myself up again. This thing is incredibly special to me, and a very delicate balancing act. These characters are precious to me - ALL OF THEM - they're giving me an amazing gift, something I never thought I'd get EVER, and seeing the reactions lately is making me question the whole idea of sharing the story in the first place.
Indeed, one of the conditions Zeke is demanding for continuing the tale is that I not tell anyone what he tells me. Is this how stories die out here? Because it sure feels like it to me. I feel like I'm hugging my little nephew and trying to get him to tell me how it happened that he got beaten up on the playground.
I'm more upset and depressed than I can find words for. I love that story, or rather, I loved it. Whether I ever get it back or not, I fear I'll never be able to recapture the feeling I had even just a week ago, and even if I do, I'll think long and hard about whether I want anyone to read it. One bout with that kind of sucker-punching is all I need, thank you.
.
Great. So now neither of them will talk to me.
Casey's afraid, in pain, and reluctant to do anything. Zeke is so hurt and enraged that I can't even get a glare out of him, he's so knotted up with anger. I can't say I blame him, not one bit.
And the saddest thing is, I'm beginning to understand why people abandon WIPs. I'm certainly not feeling very enthusiastic about opening myself up again. This thing is incredibly special to me, and a very delicate balancing act. These characters are precious to me - ALL OF THEM - they're giving me an amazing gift, something I never thought I'd get EVER, and seeing the reactions lately is making me question the whole idea of sharing the story in the first place.
Indeed, one of the conditions Zeke is demanding for continuing the tale is that I not tell anyone what he tells me. Is this how stories die out here? Because it sure feels like it to me. I feel like I'm hugging my little nephew and trying to get him to tell me how it happened that he got beaten up on the playground.
I'm more upset and depressed than I can find words for. I love that story, or rather, I loved it. Whether I ever get it back or not, I fear I'll never be able to recapture the feeling I had even just a week ago, and even if I do, I'll think long and hard about whether I want anyone to read it. One bout with that kind of sucker-punching is all I need, thank you.
.