Game of Thrones

So I'm a little late to the game. There's a reason though. Knowing how much I love George R.R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire books, I knew this HBO series was going to be pure visual crack. Hearing how much everyone liked it so far only make the urge to dive in worse. But I've been writing, and wrapped up in my own little world, I've been able to keep the urge for distraction at bay. Until this weekend.

After Friday off writing because of a sick husband at home and too much work to do, then a long weekend of yard work, errands, a few buckets of sweat and a lot of sore muscles, my body cried out for an excuse to sit on the couch. I sat there, chewing my lip and wringing my hands, contemplating sneaking upstairs to begin the series alone on my computer. I could watch as many episodes in a row as I wanted, when I wanted. Oh joy!

My annoying voice of reason squeaked that this was a bad idea. I needed moderation or my writing time would get swallowed by GOT episodes.

I mentioned the series to my husband, who had not read the books and knew nothing about the series. Thankfully, he offered to check out the first epsiode with me. He liked it. Now (as I set here biting my nails and flogging myself) I'm stuck waiting for him to have the time and inclination to watch the second episode. Oh voice of reason, how I hate you right now.

Maybe I could watch them and then pretend I hadn't when he gets around to having time to view them. Yes. Yes!

Ok, that would only be even more annoying than me jumping up and down on the couch naming characters, explaining everything about them during the first episode and physically restraining myself from shouting out spoilers. Best to take a deep breath, savor the first epsiode and get some writing done. Right?

Right. But I still hate you, voice of reason.

Six Sentence Sunday: Not Another Bard's Tale 4

The Evil Overlord's minions are holding a job fair. When the turn out isn't as good as expected, complaints about the lack of advertising surface. The publicity department produces a scapegoat...err...volunteer to explain their illegible 'banner'.

“How were we to know that the crows would clean them off so quickly? Do you have any idea how much time went into attaching all those corpses to the keep? Those walls are high and making words out of bodies isn’t easy! A lot of extra effort went into dotting the I’s with heads too. Though, it kind of loses the effect without the actual eyes in place.” He kicked at the stones underfoot.

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Six Sentence Sunday: Not Another Bard's Tale 3

In this week's excerpt, we pick up just after Bruce has escaped from Jonquil, a lonely troll-fairy who just wanted to love him. Bruce didn't feel the same way.

“It tried to suffocate me in its cleavage!”

“Trolls have cleavage?” The man with the harp seemed to ponder this. “I’ll have to remember that for my ballad.”

“Maybe they call it trollage. The point is, the damned thing tried to kill me.”"

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Welcome to the writing zone

I've officically crossed over into the writing zone. It's been a long time since I've been this deep into a novel. NaNo, my usual novel churning out time is filled with in-person meet-ups and online writerly fun. Short story and revision periods are accompanied by critiquing and chatting online with other writerly types. Full on novel writing? Well, I crawl into the back of my writing cave and turn into Gollum.

Signs you've crossed the line into the writing zone:

-You send your kid to school, knowing they don't feel well, so you can have your morning writing time. (Hey, he didn't have a fever, and wasn't throwing up or bleeding. I did tell him I would come and pick him up if he really needed me to.)

-You are a notorious do-not-disturb-before-10am weekend person but now wake up at 7am to write in silence while everyone else sleeps in.

-You have always been night writing person, but when life hands you a quiet morning schedule, you find yourself staring at a wide-awake morning writer person on the mirror. When the hell did this atrosity happen?

-You bring your kid to the money pit known as Chuck E. Cheese on a busy weekend and hand her $10 so you can have half an hour of writing time surrounded by the not quite white noise of fifty pizza-smeared kids screaming in glee. Sadly that half an hour also included turning in the tickets and five minutes of picking out trinkets. (We'll know I'm in real trouble when I sink to giving her $20.)

-And the final nail in the coffin: You are a professional procrasintator but now barely get on the internet because you'd truly rather be writing. (Sorry, all my usual procrastionation sites, I'll be back... eventually.)

Six Sentence Sunday: Not Another Bard's Tale 2

This week we meet Olga, swordswoman extraordinaire and protector of Svetlana, her sister, the chosen one of the Sheep God.

Olga took an offered sword from the crowd and approached Bruce with a gleam in her eye. Her skirts swished with each step forward. She slashed at him with all the force of a hardened swordsman.

He scrambled to block her, his wrist reverberating with the power behind her blow. Realizing she meant business, he tried to stop watching her chest bounce with each thrust, and concentrate more on making himself look less inept. He swore she tugged her blouse a bit lower just to taunt him.

Enjoy other Six Sentence Sunday entries here.