4,799 words. Welsh rats–what John Steinbeck, in his Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters, called “…those meaningless apprehensions that come out of the ground, go nowhere, mean nothing and disappear–.” When I’m beset by anxieties, I must remember it’s only Welsh rats.
Late to the writing this morning. Real life intruded–the trickster that always turns up. Now I’ve had breakfast–coffee and a fried egg sandwich, lightly toasted bread. I’ve taken my meds, the Turmecin capsules and the calcium pills, and having my second cup of coffee so time to get into the office.
It’s a pallid morning, weatherwise, gray light, blotchy sky. Yesterday I left off in the middle of the scene between Desarine and Laimond. He’s told her he loves her and wants her to return to the royal court, and she’s overwhelmed by an onslaught of thoughts and feelings as she tries to comprehend the full impact of her situation. Today I pick up from that point, and I know exactly what to say–will wonders never cease?
Time to write.
penpanther 
LIke Welsh rats and knowing what you’re writing next!
It’s good having a map through the dark wood, and a light to avoid the Welsh rats!