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Whenever I say that I'm going to take a break from writing, I end up having huge surges of creative energy. Why is that?
I've been planning a fic on Tom Riddle's mum for a year and a half, but I've always pushed to the back burner. I'm not sure why, but I have a feeling it's because it feels like a much greater challenge than the "Interwoven" stuff. Here's the beginning, which I'm posting for self-motivational purposes:
I should not be here.
The thought pummels my tired mind again and again, but I know I have no choice other than to drag my legs across the pavement, my body protesting each step. Though I am certainly doing no great favours to the soles of my shoes, I lack the energy and will to lift my feet any higher. The thought of the many blocks ahead before I reach the Leaky Cauldron makes me want to sink to the ground and weep, but I forbid myself to, with a sternness befitting even my own father. I will not give these Muggles reason to pity me, though I see it in so many of their glances already. My pitiful pride is one of the few possessions I have left.
I round a corner and stop to lean against the rough brick of a shop building, my breathing laboured. The setting sun is ridding itself of the last of its warmth, causing more trickles of perspiration to seep into the chafing seams of my blouse. How I long to be free of these ill-fitting clothes, clad instead in the comfort of robes. I shift against the wall, attempting to ease my strained joints. The thought of the coming evening brings little respite, knowing I will only be kept awake by the discomforts of my body and the greater ache in my heart. How I long for some assurance that I will make it through the fearful, inescapable event so imminent in my future.
A gentleman jostles me as he passes, and my hand reaches out instinctively to brace my abdomen. He turns to apologize when he hears my pained gasp, and though his concern seems genuine, I do not miss the widening of his eyes as he takes in my figure. No doubt he wonders why a young woman in my condition would display herself in such an unseemly and public manner. Under any other circumstances, I could flit from here to the other side of London in less time than it would take him to blink, but I cannot expect him to know or understand that. Floo travel is precarious in my state, Apparition even more so. Were the gentleman to look more closely, he might even see the gold band on my finger. That would lend me more respectability in his eyes, even though I no longer know how much of a union it represents. Despite the needle of irritation his assumptions create, I find that in the end, I can only agree with him:
I should not be here.
I've still got a bit of fact-checking to do, so I apologize to the Brits if anything seems off. Look for the finished product in about four months. ;)
I've been planning a fic on Tom Riddle's mum for a year and a half, but I've always pushed to the back burner. I'm not sure why, but I have a feeling it's because it feels like a much greater challenge than the "Interwoven" stuff. Here's the beginning, which I'm posting for self-motivational purposes:
I should not be here.
The thought pummels my tired mind again and again, but I know I have no choice other than to drag my legs across the pavement, my body protesting each step. Though I am certainly doing no great favours to the soles of my shoes, I lack the energy and will to lift my feet any higher. The thought of the many blocks ahead before I reach the Leaky Cauldron makes me want to sink to the ground and weep, but I forbid myself to, with a sternness befitting even my own father. I will not give these Muggles reason to pity me, though I see it in so many of their glances already. My pitiful pride is one of the few possessions I have left.
I round a corner and stop to lean against the rough brick of a shop building, my breathing laboured. The setting sun is ridding itself of the last of its warmth, causing more trickles of perspiration to seep into the chafing seams of my blouse. How I long to be free of these ill-fitting clothes, clad instead in the comfort of robes. I shift against the wall, attempting to ease my strained joints. The thought of the coming evening brings little respite, knowing I will only be kept awake by the discomforts of my body and the greater ache in my heart. How I long for some assurance that I will make it through the fearful, inescapable event so imminent in my future.
A gentleman jostles me as he passes, and my hand reaches out instinctively to brace my abdomen. He turns to apologize when he hears my pained gasp, and though his concern seems genuine, I do not miss the widening of his eyes as he takes in my figure. No doubt he wonders why a young woman in my condition would display herself in such an unseemly and public manner. Under any other circumstances, I could flit from here to the other side of London in less time than it would take him to blink, but I cannot expect him to know or understand that. Floo travel is precarious in my state, Apparition even more so. Were the gentleman to look more closely, he might even see the gold band on my finger. That would lend me more respectability in his eyes, even though I no longer know how much of a union it represents. Despite the needle of irritation his assumptions create, I find that in the end, I can only agree with him:
I should not be here.
I've still got a bit of fact-checking to do, so I apologize to the Brits if anything seems off. Look for the finished product in about four months. ;)