I've written a little over a thousand words today--not as much as I'd like, but I was busy trying to find a job most of the day, and then I had to help my mom move some furniture at my grandmother's, and also I'm working a thousand-piece puzzle with a picture of London Bridge bathed in an improbably pink sunset. Hey, working this puzzle is important.
I have introduced the adventurers to Rose and had the bard explain that there is an ancient prophecy about a white deer who will Save the World. That makes me realize that if I don't write a doggerel ballad about the prophecy that is at least a page long, I'm no fantasy author. So tonight I'll go to bed early with a mug of tea and a spiral notebook, and I'll write a crappy ballad. Only it won't be all that crappy, I swear; the first writing I ever got paid for was a poem, so I don't want to embarrass myself. Much.