I’m still writing. I know I don’t talk about it much because frankly, it’s still a little embarrassing. It’s like saying that you are learning how to ballroom dance then having all your friends watch as you trip on your fringe and fall flat on you face. At least that’s how I perceive it. I know I have the most supportive family and friends ever and you guys all totally rock. If you have a kindle or a reader I can totally send you a version to read in PDF but Mildred is huge. It’s gotten to the point where I’m a little embarrassed to say that it’s well over 600 pages and over 350,000 words. I remember when I was so impressed with myself for writing a straight 1,000 words. Anywho, it’s hard for me to admit I write because I always worry about failing once it’s done. I have a keen need to be better, faster, and all around more awesome than anyone around me, and frankly, it’s not competition because it’s not about anyone but me. Thankfully my cousin Rebecca shares this “Bigger, Better, Faster Syndrome” and we can laugh how we are crazy.
Tomorrow I’m going to the Patrick Rothfuss signing in Beaverton (HA! BEAVERTON) for his release of The King Killer. The Name of the Wind (his first book in the series) was the first and only book that has ever made me cry. (Well beside when Dumbledore died but everyone cried at that!). His writing is so elegant and beautiful that he’s kind of become a writer I compare myself to, like “is this sentence as good as one of his? No? Then rewrite it.” I do this with Tad Williams too so maybe that explains why I’m still writing after 600+ pages?
Recently tho I’ve had a development. I have been writing Mildred completely organically and frankly had no idea how she’d end. Laying in bed one night overly tired but not able to sleep it came to me, the whole end unfolded and I cried. I cried because I had no idea it would be that way but now that I have seen it, it truly is the only way it can end. So yeah, I know where I’m heading, I don’t know how soon I’ll get there though.
In the mean time this popped into my head today while I was in the shower (very much the way Mildred first did). I dig it and may write a short. (And here is a picture of Tank looking nuts because this is how I feel 80% of the time.)
“Son of a bitch” I yelled as I grabbed my shin and made my way wincing to one of my dining room chairs. I may be what the humans call an angel but it still hurts like hell when I bang my shin into a sharp edged drawer.
I’m not like you, and I’m definitely not human, but I would be loath to call myself an angel. Angeles conjure up images of sickening precious moments figurines, babies in diapers shooting heart shaped arrows or beautiful women in long flowing white gowns with huge white swan wings. I am none of those things. I may work for Them upstairs but I don’t fit nicely into your preconceived stereotypes, mainly because they piss me off. I did say “Them”, meaning gods. There are many of them just as there are many of anything that exists. It would be like thinking there is only one star, one ocean, one rat, there are always more than you think, always more than you see.
Looking at me you’d think I was normal enough. I appear to be a woman in her middle thirties with blondish shoulder length hair, bright green eyes, a round Scandinavian face and a couple of extra pounds. I’m neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, pretty nor ugly. I’m right in the middle where you will forget about me just as soon as you see me, just as I’m supposed to be. I say appear to be in my thirties because that’s how I look to humans, in fact I’m roughly (because I stopped counting some time ago) the age of those mummified mammoths they find. I’ve been here protecting and watching over humans since they first were plopped on this spec of dirt. I’m immortal and before anyone starts thinking that’s as cool as it gets let me sort a few things for you. Being immortal means you are old, seriously old, and I’ve never met a happy chipper people lover whose north of one hundred. So excuse me if I’m not employee of the month anymore. Humans tend to get on your nerves after a while. Yeah I love ‘em like I have to and protect them from the boogeyman but the fact is humans are a lot of stinking work. And that’s if they don’t start whining. So I’m a little grumpy at best, you’d be too. Second, I’m not rich and awesome like the Highlander which kind of stinks. A lot of my stuff gets blown up or set on fire in the whole smiting process so I live modestly on the build it yourself designs of Ikea. Finally it’s nearly impossible to find an interesting book anymore. When you’ve lived as long as I have you’ve heard almost every story anyone could ever tell.
My name is Ariel and I’m kind of a big thing, but that’s another story. My job is to watch over the humans and keep them from those that would bring blackness into the world. I’m not talking about the pit either; humans think that the pit offers up the greatest evil ever created, well it doesn’t. The ones from below just think differently and maybe are a little bit impulsive, and weird and maybe they like to have a human snack now and then but there is worse out there. The great adversary does reside in the pit but still he’s not really my focus, mainly he fights with Them but lately it’s been akin to two old guys fighting over chess. I watch for things that make the pit dwellers quake and then I kick some ass. I don’t start each day looking to smite someone because frankly, it’s a lot of work and not everyone needs to be smited. If living this long has taught me anything it’s just to let some things go. Mainly I try to be as normal as possible by human standards, run my little book shop and try not to use my fiery sword on the asshole in 3B who thinks he’s Neil Peart at two am on a Wednesday. If there’s anything I hate more than televangelist (and as a rule all angels do) it’s would be drummers.