Happy turkey day, people who celebrate turkey day! And for people who don't, too, for the record. I guess you don't need to get in on the stuffing-full-of-stuffing to enjoy the general atmosphere of family togetherness (which, hopefully, is a good one for y'all.) For folks who aren't that closely knit, i hope the day's a day of free-floating good feelings; for the folks who are closely knit with your kin, then i hope you have an absolute Norman Rockwell of a time.

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DECK THE WALLS WITH BOUTS OF FOLLY FALALALALALALALALA

TIS THE SEASON FOR WRITEHOLICS

FALALALALALALALALA

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_{Low-key stressed flutterbutter for low-key stressed mood.}

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Holy crap you guys are awesome and I love you all

Thanks for following my horse stories and horse words and stuff and never stop being you okay

Time for DANCE PARTYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

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I ain't gonna say that Wanderer D put me up to this. Except maybe he did.

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To be honest, I never thought I'd finish a chapter story.

My track record is remarkably poor on that sort of thing. As in, as far as I can remember, zero percent out of any of the things that I actually want to remember. Blame it on an attention span problem, or self-doubt, or insecurity about the direction, or what have you.

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Whoops.

You ever have this moment where you're over halfway into something big and you realize "Wait a minute. This isn't what I think I've been going for?"

Then you realize "Oh crap this wasn't what I've been going for all along"

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_{Hell. Yes.}

I wrote stuff. I put a new story out, and I know that I'm gonna be able to see it through.

Mostly because I actually wrote a bunch of chapters ahead of time, already have the ending planned out and am finishing up the last few chapters of the story as I'm writing this.

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Publish or perish, or something. Obviously less good than the other one, but I'd feel guilty about not posting something, and I want to work on my stories a bit more. (Granted, I did earlier today, too, but D&D and Cities: Skylines kind of devoured my whole day, fam.)

Anyways!

He came from the sea on a midsummer morn,
The nothing-faced boy with the salt-wrinkled hands.
He put on the clothes which he never had worn
And marched from the waves through the desolate sands.

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I also did a poem at the con. A different poem. I'm sort of proud of it. Not as proud as I was of "The Glass Flower," but still reasonably proud.

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