and a compass wouldn't help at all

I promised some of that writing I'm doing, and I had the scanner out, so here we are:



mystery (minor miracle?) Even though you don't look him in the eye, have no idea what his face looks like, you glean one thing from this first, chance, meeting: he's almost a foot taller than you are.

I spewed out a bit more of it last night, but I'm still stuck. I mean, I know where I want to get to, but I don't know how to get there. It'll sort itself, eventually.

And then, of course, today I had an idea for something to start writing involving Tomas (i.e. he who lives in land of snow and (probable) trolls. No, it's not Scandinavia). This is good! I have not written consistently for...a while, anyway, when I was writing The World's Most Condescending Kids' Story™ (I don't know if I will ever finish that - I enjoy it, and occasionally find bits of notes about it lying around, but I couldn't stand the tone I was using in it and, as yet, have no desire to even think about rewriting it).

~*~

I started reading The Dogs of Riga, and it's trotting along nicely. Sadly the only characters I actually know in it at the moment are Wallander himself, and Martinsson (Linda's not in them yet as she is still at university at the moment. Shame, really, because I think Linda's my favourite character, and one of the things I love about the TV series is the relationship between her and her father. I sincerely hope it's the same in the books).

~*~

I got a bit weepy earlier and, for the last few hours, I have been wanting to shed ALL THE TEARS. I'm not even premenstrual, WHAT IS THIS.

(I'm not even really sad, just inexplicably teary).