Keiran "Galehaut" Decameron (distant_isle) wrote in britannia_ny, @ 2009-10-27 14:05:00 |
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Current mood: | frustrated |
Entry tags: | elaine corbin, ivy statton, jim brown, keiran decameron |
Chapter 1: In which our hero suffers writer's block and wanders aimlessly (Open)
The novel isn't going well. A week or two ago, sure, his agent had been ecstatic and he'd been all set to redefine the genre and make his millions and build a goddamned castle right here with the money...
… and then a week or two had gone, and he'd not sat down and put pen to paper or finger to keyboard. Probably because he'd been too busy stalking Lexi...
… and then it's today and said agent is hounding him for the first chapter and all he's got thus far is a sonnet about some guy in red armour and it doesn't even rhyme properly.
Shit.
Normally the best way to break writer's block is to get drunk and end up tangled up in the nearest amenable warm body, but knowing his luck they'd turn out to be Malehaut or Guinevere or something and he'd be even more screwed than he is now, and he doesn't need a new obsession (not, he thinks, that anything would measure up to Lexi-Lance-whoever, but he's not quite naïve enough to believe that finding her's undone the habits of this lifetime in one magic moment). Instead he's trying this 'going for a walk and clearing your head' thing, kicking his way through the first casualties of autumn – no, wait, they call it Fall here, right? Crazy damn yanks – like a little kid in wellies and a souwester except that he's a grown man in faded red knock-off Converse and a Prose before Hos t-shirt. The words probably aren't hiding under the fallen leaves, but they look pretty as they tumble around.