The Author in the Dill


Sitting cross-legged on a marble floor in a room ten thousand times larger than the sun, tiny scraps of paper surrounded me.

On each hastily torn slip was written a spate of words. Some jumbles of letters were no longer than a single sentence. Most, however, were large, involved knots of script with the names “Sam” and “Brevyn” being the only words recognizable to a sane, uncluttered mind.

Alas, there no was no sane, uncluttered mind present.

Only me.

Only Chloe.

With Book Two of “The Lion and the Steed Series” tossed before me like leaves from a storm, I sat on my imaginary floor in my imaginary room ten thousand times larger than the sun trying to piece together a single novel from a hundred little tales.

Hours passed.

Spent Prozac leaked out of my ears.

Even my dog had deserted me for a furious tongue-lashing at the cat across the street.

Slowly, however, against all odds chapters began to grow out of loose paragraphs.

Storylines found direction and spirit as they hesitantly started to weave themselves together into a novel that just might not only make sense, but a novel that just might be darn good.

As the shadows grew long and heavy across the marble floor of my mind and my computer screen, nearly half a sequel was born.

Exhausted and still covered with afterbirth, I crawled to my tiny garden in my tiny backyard. And then with the last breath of sanity, I grabbed a pot and some dirt and planted my mother her longed-for Dill…

*the curtain slowly lowers as the house lights dim*

No this is not some nightmare or some mental hiccup of a really scary clown. This was my Wednesday, with only a few embellishments added to cast proper light on the utter ridiculousness of my existence at times.

And yesterday was a good day, a fruitful day which bore well-organized smut and Dill.

*pauses pregnantly trying to come up with some insightful conclusion to this blog, to this story, to this life…*

Yeah, ok, I’ve got nothing.

Have a dilly of a day, everyone.

Until tomorrow…


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